


Agent Notes: The West Berlin Incident

by MarleyMortis



Series: Agent Notes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcoholism, Berlin Wall, Brainwashing, Director Howard Stark, Double Agents, Dubious Consent, Early S.H.I.E.L.D., F/F, F/M, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Political tension, Self-Worth Issues, Self-destructive habits, These People Are Not Okay, Torture Typical of The Winter Soldier, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, graphic smut, mild homophobia, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An early S.H.I.E.L.D. mission goes pear-shaped as Howard Stark's team of high-level agents race to stop the Soviet Union from causing mayhem and seizing control of West Berlin.  S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Number 3, Agent Gwen Holcomb, finds herself up to her ears in unhealthy coping strategies as her life and career runs off the rails.  And, operating under the radar, Vasily Karpov unleashes his deadliest operative, the Winter Soldier, to make a power play for the top spot of the KGB.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3 September, 1961

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago and contemplated posting it for a long time. Hope it finds an audience. Gwen Holcomb's personal relationships are not a depiction of healthy relationships and stem from a history of low self-worth. I've tried to tag for most of the obvious bad things these people go through. If you notice anything I haven't tagged, please let me know so I can add them.

**3 September, 1961**

A branch scored a thin trail of blood on Gwen's cheek, but the resultant sting was shrugged off in favor of maintaining forward momentum, allowing her to vault over a fallen tree without breaking stride. Her quarry, however, was forced to duck beneath a low hanging limb and plow through the undergrowth like the proverbial elephant in a china shop. Said target was finally within range to warrant deploying an electrical disc kept tucked in a compartment on her leather bracers.

The disc magnetized to his cybernetic arm, causing a jolt that momentarily shorted out the electric current providing movement to the limb. He sagged. The dead weight slowed him considerably, and she surged forward the remaining distance. Using a boulder as a springboard allowed her to catch the trunk of a tree with enough momentum to swing around it. Both feet planted dead center on his chest.

He stumbled backward several paces, unable to catch his balance with the weight of the lifeless hunk of metal pulling him toward the ground. She, on the other hand, absorbed the recoil by landing on the backs of her shoulders and allowing motion to carry her into a somersault. Her efficiency meant she returned to her feet well ahead of him and had a stance set before he could make his knees.

The man's blue eyes bored across the swath of ground separating them. Calmly, without a moment of uncertainty that he would ultimately emerge victorious, he yanked the disc off his arm. A quick flex of the shoulder joint proved he'd recovered quickly from the electrical charge. Intensity, predatory awareness, and the slick competence he displayed with edged weapons when he retrieved a knife and deftly flipped it to a plunging grip would have put most people right off.

Agent Holcomb was not most people.

In fact, she smiled broadly in an indication she not only appreciated his brand of lethality but was actively looking forward to engaging with him. A solid stance lowered her center of gravity, and she retrieved her own knife to be held in a deceptively casual grip. _“Let's see if we can put a matching red star on the other shoulder, Sweetheart.”_

His response came in Russian and was delivered in a gruff voice reminiscent of semi-precious stones being worn to a smooth polish in a rock tumbler. _“You possess no skill I cannot best. This engagement is painfully lopsided.”_

The aforementioned grin broadened, and her rejoinder was spoken in perfect Russian. _“The only lopsided thing here is the part in your hair. I feel like I should make a Tin Woodsman joke, though. What I could do to you if you only had a heart.”_

Emotion played out rapidly across his visage. Eyes widened to emote how startled he was by her fluent command of his language. Confusion became evident in the furrowing of a smooth brow in response to the flirtatious jibe. Ultimately, he covered his emotional response with a tightening of his features before punching a knife blade toward her throat without further ado.

The lack of telegraphing prior to his opening move shortened her usual reaction time, but she still managed to bend backward out of range. Twisting under the blade, she came in with a sharp attack that landed against his kidneys, her fist fueled by whatever otherworldly heritage that granted her an unexpectedly long life and advanced healing. There was no way she looked a day over thirty despite having been born in the latter years of the nineteenth century.

Yakov was still moving to catch up when her elbow impacted against the back of his neck. His head jerked forward, but she was already swinging away by the time he whipped his metal arm around to pass through the thin air that remained where she had been. Speed was her upper hand. Strength was his, and it was imperative she maintained enough distance to continue out-maneuvering him.

Their skirmish was brief and brutal. He employed classic sambo and systema with an odd mixture of American boxing; the boxing would need to be examined in greater depth later. He wanted to hit and hit hard to disable as quickly as possible. Given that speed was her strongest asset, she countered him with muay thai, using hands, elbows, knees, and shins in multiple attacks to keep him off balance and force him into constant movement to wear him down.

Experience wasn't a guarantee of victory, though. Things went wrong in combat. Regardless of her decades of experience, there existed the possibility he was better than her equal. Said possibility was evidenced by the hard jab to her side with his devastating cybernetic arm. Fractured ribs were likely the result. The Winter Soldier gave no leeway for her sex, and she would have it no other way.

But those few seconds allowed him the advantage of being able to snake his arm around her waist in an attempt to immobilize her. Her retort was to bury her elbow against his face. Blood poured from his nose only to be wiped away with a brief swipe of his jacket sleeve. If his cheek wasn't fractured from a blow like that, she would be gobsmacked. More important were the few seconds it bought her to weasel away from his grasp and get some distance between them

The secondary pass resulted in both of them charging like a pair of bulls in a field of red poppies. She shifted course at the last second, spring-boarded off a boulder, and buried her fingers in his hair, using gravity and body weight to topple him over backwards. Both of them hit the ground, but she wound up tangled in his arms. By the time they both froze, she had her elbow on his esophagus and he was poised with a knife above her femoral artery.

Impasse.

She would bleed out in minutes if he severed her artery, but she would crush his windpipe before dying in their present configuration. Meaning: Curtains for both of them. Blood was rushing in her ears, but her whole body quieted when she gazed down into the smoldering embers of his hard glance.

Who could say what caused the tension in the air to shift. Maybe it was something as simple as a chilly breeze kicking up. Perhaps it was a sudden and unexpected admiration for each others skill sets. Odds were equally as good they were both just violent people, and only a miniscule filament separated sex from violence. In a world full of tension, it became easy to confuse the two.

Whatever the reason, something sparked inside her psyche that hadn't been there during the prior two years spent hunting him down as her extracurricular activity. The resounding silence and stillness from his end were clear indications he felt it too, as nothing stopped him from seizing her momentary confusion and plunging that knife home other than an equally startled realization on his part.

Seconds stretched into ten and then fifteen.

His glance moved from her eyes to her lips and was followed by a brief flash of the tip of his tongue as he quickly moistened his own. Gleaming teeth clenched on his bottom lip for a fraction of a second before the indecision melted from his body language. He might not have telegraphed his fighting moves, but he certainly telegraphed his desire to snog.

That fraction was all her psychotic ovaries needed to go from “he's mildly attractive” to “want sampling of his genetic material now!” After all, wasn't it Charles Darwin who had postulated the theory that natural selection encouraged only the strongest genes to survive to the next generation? She was only checking to see if he was a strong enough candidate to merge her genetic information with and produce offspring likely to survive to reproductive maturity. Or something.

At least that was how she consoled herself upon becoming more interested in the contents of his trousers than in killing him. What an absolute shame it would be to waste such a specimen. Being her physical and skill-based equal just made him all the more attractive.

Hard to say which of them moved first, though. The Winter Soldier looked equally as confused in the split second before they made the mutual decision to call a temporary truce. Either she pulled his head toward her, or he was already moving when she tugged. Whichever the case, their mouths mashed against one another in a heated exchange. The metallic taste of blood from his nose seemed fitting.

She couldn't swallow the whimper of delight when he pushed insistently past her lips and the velvet of his tongue slid alongside hers. The man fought like a cobra but kissed like a lion with all the certainty of a predator who knew he existed at the top of the food chain. The resultant tug on his hair was more forceful than she would have employed with her sometimes-lovers, and she reestablished her own dominance by forcing her tongue into the recesses of his mouth. No passive receptacle was she.

Whether he appreciated her efforts was lost to the hiss of Velcro—a new invention just making its way onto the commercial market—when she peeled the fastener of his trousers open. Theirs was no romantic coupling with soft kisses, flower petals, and the whisper of sweet nothings. The only thing that mattered was getting enough clothes out of the way in order for him to jackhammer his cock into her as quickly as possible. Because the longer she was bereft of his instrument, the hotter her loins burned. In short, she needed him to fuck her hard and fast before they could resume killing each other.

Breath hissed through his teeth when her knuckles accidentally brushed his inflamed cheek while removing her fingers from his hair. He lunged back to his feet, and for a moment, Gwen thought the stirring arousal making her seriously uncomfortable would end in epic failure until he grasped both her wrists and yanked her up. Said wrists were pushed behind her back to be clasped in one of his big palms, forcing their chests together. He stared into her cornflower gaze. Who was to say what was going on behind those refined features? Whether he was making up his mind about continuing with the kissing or the killing wasn't something he seemed willing to vocalize. In the end, though, he pinned her hands against the small of her back and whispered against her ear.

_“This will change nothing between us. When we are done with each other, I will still have your head.”_

The sound of his voice sent shivers of desire racing down her spine and into her loins. How could one man's voice be so bloody sexy as to cause a flood in her vagina? It was like forty days and forty nights down there when he spoke in those low, delicious tones. So lost was she that she almost didn't respond.

“Back at you.” If there was a corresponding phrase in Russian, she wasn't aware of its existence and therefore had to resort to English.

Seemed like he'd decided to fuck her brains out instead of killing her, as his mouth was hot and hungry against her throat. Lips sealed over her jugular and sucked strongly. His free hand was left to unzip her leather coat, and the palm settled against her stomach. It slid north, bunching her sweater beneath his hand until he was able to shove the cup of her bra up and over her tit. The calloused pad of his thumb roughed her nipple when it flicked in quick circles across the peak.

Gwen's breath hitched in response. Her nipple puckered into a tight bud, an early onset of the sixties clamoring for looser morals and sexual freedom that was evidenced by her defiant nipple thumbing its proverbial nose at the puritan values of stodgy British modesty. Of course it was eager for attention! Howard and Peggy had been in DC for months working on building S.H.I.E.L.D's framework while she was stuck half-way across the world in the ass-crack of Russia overseeing a command post of a couple hundred agents. If only stuffy Britain knew about what happened between Stark's expensive sheets when they were in the same city.

A sudden hard pinch to her nipple refocused her mind on the hot-blooded Russian backing her toward an outcropping of rock. And when she didn't move with enough speed to satisfy him, he grabbed her ass, lifted her from her feet, and propelled her backwards until he could brace her against a convenient boulder, her legs splayed on either side of his solid body.

Pro: Her hands were free again. Con: Her boots were fucking ridiculous to unlace which meant taking her from behind would have been more efficient. She'd chosen her garments for comfort and ergonomics, not for speed of removal.

Gwen reestablished dominance by shoving his hand away from her breast, allowing her to lean forward and finish unlacing his dark trousers. They were shoved from his hips and her hand insinuated inside to expose his penis to the chilly Russian air. His cock was thick and well-formed and already well on its way toward being fully erect. Most importantly, it was clean. No funky smells or rashes existed that would put a swift halt to an otherwise hot encounter, and he even kept his bush neatly trimmed.

While one hand slid up the length of his shaft to circle her thumb around the head, she employed the other in clasping his chin and dragging him closer for another kiss. He tried to dominate the kiss by being overly forceful, but her sound of discomfort saw him gentling his approach. Much to her surprise. She hadn't pegged him for being overly observant about her level of comfort. The soft glide of his tongue caused another wave of moisture to pool in loins throbbing with need. 

Any patience she still possessed evaporated when he unfastened her belt buckle and made quick work with her jeans, yanking them and her panties down until the top edges of her combat boots prevented them from being lowered any farther. Angry bruises already mottled her ribs from his earlier blow, and she was gobsmacked again when the man carefully grazed bare knuckles across her flesh. His lips tightened a fraction, eyes slightly downcast at her responding flinch and swift intake of breath. That certainly wasn't a response she was expecting. They were supposed to be killing each other afterward, but those weren't the eyes of a man who intended bloody combat post-sex.

His tender moment passed, though, when he grabbed her legs and hooked them over his shoulders so that her pants were bunched behind his neck. The length of his shaft brushed her exposed flesh, sending splinters of need coursing straight to her clit. He pulsed his hips gently to slide said length along her slit and smear the moisture produced by her own flesh on his.

 _“Condom?”_ he asked.

 _“Oral contraceptives,”_ she responded. _“I'm clean.”_ Her advanced rate of healing meant she couldn't contract diseases. If exposed, her immune system descended upon the foreign bodies like a juggernaut.

Hammering heart aside, her loins felt so swollen and empty that she would start hitting him again if he didn't fill her with something soon. She grabbed his jacket and hauled him closer. _“You have thirty seconds to start fucking instead of tormenting. I have no patience right now.”_ Said in husky Russian, as the language felt like sex, cigarettes, and chocolate on her tongue.

He actually chuckled whilst clenching a handful of her sherry-red hair in his metal fist and forcing her head back to expose her throat. Likely just to prove he was dominant, by the way. The thick head of his penis parted her vaginal lips and was rubbed against her clit. Maddeningly.

Her hips strained toward him. She worked her legs in an attempt to unhook her pants from the back of his neck thinking she could work the material down his back until clasping him between her thighs became possible. No such luck, and her endeavors ended in a frustrated growl while she leaned back on her elbows. _“Fucking fuck, Yakov. I can't even... Einstein jumped on his broomstick and fucked a Turkish goat with Euripides in one orifice and Einstein in the other.”_

Something that sounded suspiciously like “Brits” feathered from his lips, and an odd moment of amusement tilted one corner of his mouth up. His cleft chin was more noticeable when he smiled.

A warbling sound greeted the plunging of his penis inside her finally. He gave it all to her in one sure thrust that clasped their loins tightly together until not even a sliver of daylight could be seen between them, until he was so deep it felt like her body was incapable of containing oxygen and him at the same time so catching her breath became impossible. Her jaw clenched. She tightened her vaginal muscles around his girth and offered a quick circle of her hips.

Once he started moving, the situation and her brain function spiraled quickly out of control. Who gave a flying fuck that she was putting herself in extreme danger? The danger made it all the more rewarding; it was hot partially because he could kill her before any reasonable defense could be managed. Whatever dark part of her psyche that craved the thrill reveled in every ounce of Yakov's passion and in the odd mixture of pleasure and pain. His surging hips collided with her loins hard enough her fractured ribs were irritated, hard enough to make her tits bounce. What resulted was more visceral, more real than anything she'd experienced in her six-odd decades of life.

Forceful thrusts increased in tempo, and he hooked his cybernetic arm around her leg, the gloved hand resting just above her sex. Having it so near her clit without actual contact quickly drove her batty. Hips arched toward him to make contact, but he didn't seem inclined to grant non-verbal requests. Or maybe it just never occurred to him to bridge those centimeters. She undertook matters herself by positioning his metal fingertips against her clitoris.

Brows knit slightly in response to having his touch repositioned. A slight whir of gears allowed his thumb metacarpal to rotate the pad around her clit. Slowly. Cautiously. _“The metal isn't too rough against such sensitive flesh?”_

Later, when she wasn't so desperate to achieve orgasm, she might demonstrate that the metal possessed no miniscule burrs that might catch on skin by wrapping his own hand around his penis. For the moment, she shook her head and pressed her loins against the appendage in question without flinching. _“Fuck, I need to come so badly. I haven't come in such a long time.”_

Ministrations against her clit became more confident along with the increased forcefulness and speed of his thrusts. One could see the moment Yakov transitioned from awkward “what the Hell am I doing?” to being wholeheartedly engaged in the act of coitus. Gone was any sense of caution or restraint. He finally relinquished control to his nether regions and that primal instinct to mate. Ragged breathing was secondary to the tightening of his features as evidence of his increasing need.

There was simply no quieting the breathy sounds of encouragement extracted from her when his cock worked her like the pistons of an eight cylinder Corvette. Tension caused the muscles of her right leg to shake uncontrollably in the moments before that split second when a good fuck culminated into an intense orgasm. Muscles seized. Waves of hot and cold pumped from her clit into her farthest extremities like her heart had exchanged functions with her clitoris. She came hard and bucked her hips against him so forcefully she nearly dislodged him. Helpless noises escaped during the highest peak of her release, and she was left panting, wilted, and sapped in its passing.

But he wasn't done with her yet.

Thrusts slowed to soft pulses that shifted his penis by mere centimeters. While his chest heaved to catch his breath, he reached up and made quick work of the laces on her combat boots. First one dropped onto the ground and then the other, finally allowing him to work her jeans the rest of the way off, at which point, they were discarded in a heap on the ground.

Once legs were free of their confines, she was quite happy to wrap them around his waist and pull him close enough to take possession of his mouth again. Her post-orgasmic vagina throbbed around him, so timing the movements of her tongue with the pulses seemed natural. Excitement caused a hand to rise and grip his chin to prevent him from withdrawing. He flinched.

Gwen immediately pulled said hand away and stopped kissing him long enough to gauge his condition. Why it suddenly mattered whether or not he was in pain was a mystery, but she'd clearly brushed against an injury. Marbled red and blue flesh was becoming increasingly inflamed where her elbow had struck his face. She frowned. Slightly. After tucking a tendril of hair behind his ear, she gingerly brushed her mouth over the bruise.

Something softened in his expression.

They both seemed aware of the dangerous territory they tread, so he pulled them back into the moment with a couple of strong thrusts that seated him firmly between her legs again. Such a rigid cock still had plenty of life left, and despite their differences, she was all for him getting as much satisfaction out of the encounter. She respected him enough to want to sexually please him. Sex and the need to stop him from committing more crimes didn't have to go hand in hand.

Slight tremors made his touch seem frantic when he shoved the coat from her shoulders and reached around to unclasp her bra, allowing full access to her perky tits. He seemed desperate by that point. What woman didn't enjoy knowing she'd helped a lover achieve that state of need? 

The thought flitted from her mind moments later when his hot mouth enclosed a nipple, and he quickly suckled it to a heightened state of sensation. So much blood pooled there from his ministrations that the follow-up bite near the nipple elicited a startled yelp. The dark, near-purple mark he left behind flooded her body with more endorphins and combined with the bruising grip his metal hand had on her ass to form a twisted-psyche-that-loved-the-combination-of-pleasure-and-pain cake.

Yakov skimmed his mouth away from her nipple and back toward her lips. He stopped along the way to dip his tongue into her suprasternal notch—beads of sweat had collected there from their exertions—before continuing along the way. The unexpected gentleness of his tongue when the kiss reengaged was an odd pleasure contrast with his painful grip. But it was a lingering kiss that proved to be a fine example of the theory of relativity. Five seconds kissing him felt like the blink of an eye while a second with her hand in a vice was more like a lifetime.

Her worldview focused on the hands clamped on her hips and the slow, forceful thrusts that slapped their loins together with an audible wet sound. Once. Twice. A third time. And Gwen became a shuddering mess from having her hips tilted at an angle that allowed his engorged flesh contact with a sensitive area in the core of her vagina. Sensation caused a quaking in her loins that promised the coming of something epic.

The oddly helpless, warbling sound he produced, his forehead pressing into her shoulder, did funny things to her insides. They were the kind of funny things someone intent on killing their lover post-intercourse didn't make. Fingers threaded into his hair to pull his head up from her shoulder where she saw a frightening shift occurring as the calculating Winter Soldier gave way to a desperate man inside.

Everything coalesced into one mind-altering orgasm. She came again with heels locked against his straining buttocks and mouth pressed against the thick column of his throat to muffle the keening sounds unable to be swallowed. It was hard and intense. She felt like she was being turned inside out. In the wake of its passing, she could do nothing but pant and shudder.

The half dozen more thrusts that followed were increasingly uncoordinated and accompanied by his grip tightening on her flesh. Any force his organic hand accomplished, however, was nothing compared to the cybernetic arm. Fresh bruises that had nothing to do with combat would likely mottle her skin before making it back to town. Even that couldn't make her request he loosen his grip. Instead, she ground her heels into his buttocks to encourage him toward orgasm.

Either he hadn't come in a very long time or she was the best lay of his life. Ego crowed the latter. Logic extolled the former, but the man produced a breathy whimpering sound and sagged when he finally stilled. He trembled between her outstretched thighs. Beads of sweat glistened on his body from the toll of his orgasm. Semen made their loins sticky when his softening flesh slipped from her.

Five or ten minutes were all she allowed herself to bask in the bone-melting encounter so her heart rate could return to the realm of normalcy. Good thing she wasn't the cuddling type post-coitus, because he moved first, stepping away and affixing his trousers back around his waist. The surprise came when he retrieved her discarded pants and panties and handed them to her.

When he spoke again, it was in Russian. _“The next time you interfere with one of my marks, I won't hesitate. This?”_ He indicated their partial nudity before continuing, _“This will not save you from my wrath. Nor will it happen again.”_

Gwen eased from her perch and braced herself when protesting legs threatened to give out on her. A heady giggle escaped, as she couldn't remember the last time she'd been fucked so well standing afterward had been difficult. Oh right. He was saying something.

 _“Were you expecting tears or hurt feelings?”_ Dressing after an encounter like that took no small amount of fortitude, as well-used muscles didn't want to cooperate. She was just fastening her jeans when she continued, _“The next time I discover your op in time to prevent an assassination your threats won't deter me. And this?”_ She mimicked his earlier gesture. _“This will not happen again. But I'll be damned like Friar Tuck caught with his hand down Robin's pants if I can bring myself to regret it.”_

His expression of consternation or confusion almost made her chuckle.

She finished lacing her boots before zipping her coat up the front, and just to prove once and for all that she had ultimately been in control of the situation, she tucked fingers under his chin and kissed him a final time. “Thank you for your cooperation. I desperately needed that orgasm.” A final glance trailed from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

How long his speechlessness lasted after she'd left him in her wake, a decided bounce in her step that hadn't been there before, she couldn't say. Her speechlessness, however, didn't kick in until she returned to the S.H.I.E.L.D outpost she was assigned to oversee, because who did that? Who gave up the opportunity to down a high priority mark of Yakov's caliber for sex?

**Daily Notes: Can't wrap my mind around what happened today. Disturbed TWS during a kill shot long enough for his target to escape. Chased him down and had him in my grasp. Was supposed to kill TWS, not fuck him senseless, but valuable personality traits were gathered. He's oddly gentle. And fair. Wasn't expecting his tenderness at all.**


	2. 4 September, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences Gwen's recklessness catch up with her in the way of Peggy Carter. S.H.I.E.L.D. receives intelligence from an unreliable source leading to the discovery for a Cold War weapon.

**4 September, 1961**

The answer to her question of yesterday regarding who would surrender the opportunity to down a high priority criminal for sex was simple: Agent Gwen Holcomb, that was who. She was still stewing about it when she dropped her gear on the white, tiled floor of the women's locker room at S.H.I.E.L.D: Kiev the following afternoon. Her coat quickly followed suit. Surely the whole thing said something disturbing about her psyche. For as much as she enjoyed her open relationship with Stark and Carter, she had never experienced such a heated liaison in her long life. She'd liked fucking Yakov and had gotten off on the danger and violence involved.

Clearly, she was a disturbed individual.

Evidence of the violence littered her body when she finished undressing and stepped into the communal shower to turn on an overhead jet. Dark, angry bruises marbled her hips and ass. A vivid hickey was located on her throat. Teeth marks still marred her breast next to the nipple. Her wrists were discolored from being restrained. Someone removed from the situation would have taken one look at her and figured she'd been raped judging by her physical condition.

A decided wince occurred when she took a warm wash cloth to her vagina. There were even bruises on the insides of her thighs from the force of his thrusts. But every now and then, she would catch herself wearing a besotted smile and remembering his helpless whimpers as he orgasmed and the heady excitement feeling his hands create those bruises. She was the ruddy reincarnation of the Marquis de Sade apparently. Emphasis on masochism instead of sadism.

At least the psychological implications of her apparently violent sexuality could be contemplated in the privacy of her own mind. By the time Stark or Carter would have the opportunity to see her nude, the physical evidence would be long healed. Or so she thought until that certainty was yanked away like a greedy bully snatching Halloween candy from a toddler. 

Peggy, better known as Agent Carter, entered the locker room unexpectedly and stood with legs braced apart and arms crossed over her chest. Instant relief quickly melted from the other woman's face and transitioned to spitting mad, causing arms to uncross and hands to clench into fists. 

“Where in the blooming Hell have you been? I've a good mind to give you the bollocking you deserve. No one's heard from you in five days, Gwen! We tried giving you the benefit of the doubt when you missed your contact date, but that quickly devolved into outright worry.”

Shock left her frozen beneath the spray of water and equal parts irritated by the colossal coincidence and thrilled to see one of her sometimes-lovers again. A bar of soap nearly slipped from her hands. Big girl words deserted her in favor of unintelligible stuttering before her brain finally reasserted itself. It was the stuttering that likely gave Peggy the opportunity and inclination to notice her body.

Icy was an appropriate way to describe the woman's expression while her gaze roamed Gwen's body. That look said Peggy had transcended mere anger in favor of entering a dangerous realm where explosions and genocide might follow. It was the same one worn the evening Gwen had been forced to drag her sometimes-lover out of the CIA head office when Director Dulles had made a disparaging jibe about Captain America. Blows would have followed if she hadn't.

“Can you identify them in a line-up?” Peggy's voice was deceptively calm.

Hands raised to surrender and placate. “It's not what it looks like.”

“How can it be anything but what it looks like? You appear to have been gang-raped in a filthy alley by a horde of Hydra agents convinced implanting their seed in your uterus would result in the second coming of the Red Skull. Who did this to you?!”

“It was entirely consensual, and there was only one.”

The other woman clearly couldn't fathom how consensual sex could result in the kind of damage painted on Gwen's skin. She appeared to be struggling to find words, too. Maybe there was a hint of disappointment lurking on the peripheral of her countenance?

“I don't expect you to understand when I don't myself. I was chasing a mark. We got physical, and it transitioned from lethal force to sexual frustration in the blink of an eye. The situation spiraled out of control from there.”

“Out of control? Losing control means you have six cookies instead of two. It means spending a few pounds more on a nice dress because you really need it in your life. It does not mean this.” A quick gesture swept Gwen from head to toe. “You could have been killed.”

No one could dress her down the way Peggy Carter could, so each word caused her chin to sink closer toward her chest. “I could have, but I wasn't.”

“Semantics,” the other woman fired back. A quick glance darted to the door to ascertain whether anyone was about to enter. “Do you have the slightest idea what it would do to me if I lost Howard or you? Don't make me go through that again.”

Gwen finished rinsing conditioner from her hair before shutting off the overhead spray. A thick towel was wrapped around her personal war zone before she stepped closer, and if the back of her hand brushed Peggy's, no one would ascribe anything more to the touch than concerned colleagues. “I didn't consider the ramifications of that.”

“Try,” snapped Peggy.

“I will. Promise. This isn't going to happen again.”

The other woman's fingers hooked around hers briefly before contact was relinquished as a pair of young women entered the locker room, preventing further intimacies. Both newcomers showed a brief moment of obeisance to their commanders before going about their business and disappearing into the loo. Peggy was Agent Two, and Gwen was Agent Three, which meant the only person higher than them in the organization was Director Stark.

Agent Two waited until the women had passed before continuing on safer territory. “Howard is also in town. We're staying at the Hotel Moscow. You should have dinner with us tonight.” A thought seemed to occur to her, and she continued, “Why is it called that when it's located in Kiev?”

“Kiev is the heart of the Soviet Union's massive push toward industrialization. It's as important to the growth of the USSR as Moscow, and how did you manage rooms there during its grand opening? I called for a dinner reservation, and they were booked solid already.”

“The things you can do when your last name comes with multiple bank accounts the size of Greenland. That kind of influence makes the impossible possible. Just please don't use that quote as a means of taking the piss out of Howard by goading him into another attempt at turning lead into gold.”

She snickered in response. “Clearly, you have me mistaken for someone else.”

Silence returned while Agent Carter fixed a sexually-charged gaze upon her that nearly left her squirming in place from the promise of things to come.

The other woman finally whispered, “Shall we meet in the restaurant at six this evening? After our meal, we can proceed to the executive suite, so do bring an overnight bag. Don't be late.”

“Am I ever?”

“Mister Stark and I were embroiled in talks with the secretary-general of the United Nations about increasing our operating costs when we received word you were five days overdue for check-in. Would you care to rephrase your comment regarding your punctuality?”

A grin blossomed. It was so uncommon for people to call her on it when she was being piss-proud that she never failed to be impressed when Peggy did so. “Touche. Until this evening, Agent Carter.”

The three hours following her meeting with Peggy were interminable, like the slow drip of honey from a honey dipper when one was ravenous. The dribbles were nice, but it was hard not to stuff the dipper in one's mouth for instant gratification. Having not seen her sometimes-lovers for months meant she was more eager than usual for their company, so concentrating on work was unexpectedly difficult.

A long line of underlings came and went giving her briefings on the agents they had in the field and updating her on information from their most important active operations. Finally receiving word from an undercover agent who was only known as “Flick Five” brought a noted amount of relief. She'd been waiting on contact from their KGB insider for weeks.

Flick Five wasn't one of hers, though. He or she—no one on her team knew the agent's real name or gender—came to them by way of Colonel Nick Fury, who had taken over leadership of the Howling Commandos after Captain Rogers had been declared MIA. Personally, she despised being left out of the loop with regards to agents in the field, but she could hardly turn down the intelligence.

Paper tore with a quick hiss when she opened the package found at one of Flick Five's usual dead drops and sorted through the contents, which included a roll of film, a few handwritten notes, and two reels of audio recording tape designed for a reel to reel Magnetophon. Given the highly sensitive nature of Operation Super Glue (Julian Baro, one of her top agents, had jokingly coined the moniker for their ongoing mission to reunite Germany and prevent continued reinforcements to the wall surrounding West Berlin), she personally delivered the roll of film to their scientific department where Mister Eastman went about developing the photos.

“I didn't sanction the practical joke,” she reassured him for the umpteenth time when he paused to rub the inflamed, swollen tissue comprising his right cheek.

“I know, Boss, but when I get my hands on Agent Baro, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

She patted his shoulder in a comforting fashion and collected the photos once he'd finished their processing. Returning to her corner office took her past their archives division where she paused to look in on Mister West. “Did you find anything to bring the swelling down? If you did, Kevin could really use a tube of it himself.”

Robert glanced up from his work and massaged fingertips over the irritated flesh of his left cheek. “Nothing has worked so far. When you see Agent Baro, tell him I'm coming for him. There will be no squirming out of the retribution he's facing.”

A sympathetic smile couldn't do anything more than reassure the man she was truly sorry he'd been on the receiving end of one of Julian's practical jokes. “I'll speak to him.”

“In what deranged mind is it okay to coat two people's faces in super glue?”

“He said something about team morale. I'll do everything I can to squash office gossip regarding the event and put an official reprimand on record. The super glue was definitely taking the joke too far, as far as I'm concerned. If you need anything, let me know.” Gwen retreated from his office.

Despite being sympathetic toward their plight, she was snickering all over again upon finding a photo pinned to the Operation Superglue cork board in their main office. It depicted Mister Eastman and Mister West with their cheeks adhered together with the powerful adhesive. Agent Baro offered her a friendly “Cheerio, Queen Britain” before ducking around the corner. His lingering whistle took a few seconds to fade as he hurried down the hall.

She was still laughing fifteen minutes later while sorting through the photos. They contained images of Russia's most secretive missile silos, facilities they'd been trying to get information on for years to track the Soviet Union's armament capabilities. The audio reels, which contained recordings of numerous musical tracks, played in the background, and every now and then, she paused to note a song title, the performer, and its location on the reel via time. It was important information for decrypting the code.

Said code was on her mind even upon leaving the nondescript office building to catch the newly opened metro line. The damage the city had sustained during The War had been catastrophic. The retreating Red Army had left ten thousand mines throughout the city, mines that had then been remotely detonated as soon as the Nazi army had settled into the newly-conquered Kiev. Only one building had been left standing on the Kreschatyk, the major thoroughfare, by the end of the war. Signs of the war were still prominent throughout the city, but Kiev was in the midst of rapid reconstruction. It was quickly becoming the center for an academic and technological revolution in the USSR.

No one paid her much attention, and she disembarked at the Dnipro station, which was the terminus of the metro line, and crossed to the left bank of the river via a footbridge where a good portion of the district's residences were located. She kept a small apartment there for those rare occasions when she didn't feel like staying at the office, normally when she couldn't stand the idea of being around people. The key was in the lock when she finally deciphered the code hidden inside Flick Five's soundtrack.

The encryption and code method were uncommon. She could count on one hand the number of micro-organizations that trained their agents in the use of such encryption techniques. That narrowed down Flick Five's real identity and affiliations considerably. One of said organizations was the now-dissolved Strategic Scientific Reserve, whose remnants had been absorbed by S.H.I.E.L.D. The notion that their mystery operative had been trained inside the SSR was intriguing.

She grabbed a pen from the container on the kitchen island and jotted down the first letter of each song title, the third letter of each artist, and used the starting time to correspond to certain letters in the alphabet. Those letters were lined up accordingly to reveal the encoded message. It was going to be an interminable night that probably wouldn't include any of the fun stuff she'd been looking forward to after dinner with Howard and Peggy. Her vagina would likely thank her for the rest later.

***

Six o'clock sharp arrived, and Gwen stepped from a cab at the entrance of the Hotel Moscow. The building was fourteen stories. The main structure was a long rectangle with slightly lower towers as bookends. Seeing it illuminated with its evening lights made it seem grand and colorful compared to the utilitarian buildings lining Kalinin Square near the northeastern terminus of Kreschatyk. Well-dressed footmen waited to open the main doors and allow her inside a pristine reception hall.

Given the unexpected elegance of her surroundings, she was immediately relieved at having chosen her nicest “little nothing.” It was a teal dress that reached her knees, cut on the bias to emphasize her toned waist and curvacious hips, with three quarter sleeves to cover the fading bruises on her upper arms. The simplicity of the garment only added to its elegance and allowed her to blend into the people mingling in the foyer having cocktails.

Hosts at the entrance of the restaurant escorted her to a table tucked away in an intimate corner where Howard and Peggy were already seated. A quick breath escaped as she relinquished the knot of tension that had been lodged in the center of her chest for months. Seeing them together and safe went a long way in cleansing the burden of worry she carried when they were apart. That both her sometimes-lovers had already reached the other side of forty didn't detract from how much they took her breath away. It only reminded her that they continued to age while she didn't.

“Agent Holcomb, you are every bit as stunning as I remember,” Howard said. Like any well-bred gentleman of the era who was at all interested in the opposite sex, he rose and seated her. Unlike most well-bred gentlemen, he managed to cop a feel without anyone else noticing, his groin briefly brushing her hip while she maneuvered around the chair back.

“And you, Mister Stark, take entirely too many liberties.”

“Your protests might be more noteworthy if you ever made the slightest attempt to stop me.” The man's grin was bold and preceded him leaning over to nuzzle the side of her throat. A swift in-drawn breath resulted in a soft purr of appreciation. “You smell fantastic.”

Peggy cleared her throat quickly.

“Hold right there for one moment. My other lover is easily jealous of the attention I pay toward women. I shall return to carry this on in just a moment.” He moved in the opposite direction only to have his lips intercepted by Agent Carter's palm.

“Not here,” she warned while flicking a glance around the room, presumably to see if anyone was paying close attention. “Both of you need to put your pants back on and remember we're in public. Such scandalous behavior will not go unnoticed.”

“We obviously have differing definitions of the word 'scandalous,' my love,” Gwen returned. The desire was always there to push Peggy's boundaries, to see how far the other woman was willing to explore her sexuality before shutting them down. Slowly, they were working her out of a shell.

“Not here,” Peggy reiterated.

Gwen leaned back into her chair and held up her hands in surrender. “As much as I would enjoy spending the rest of the evening with the both of you, I can't stay long.”

“Trouble at work?” Howard asked.

“My office finally received intelligence we've been waiting on for months.”

Peggy inquired, “Flick Five?”

She nodded in response.

All that was required to bring a waiter running in their direction was for Howard to lift a hand higher than the top of his head. The speed with which they were attended was astounding and mildly amusing, especially considering the meager background in which she'd been brought up. Coming from a British workhouse in eighteen ninety nine where she'd been an orphaned, sickly child on the lowest rung of the social hierarchy, Stark's money was as flabbergasting as Man setting foot on Mars.

Funny how he could be richer than Midas without making her feel small and unimportant despite the vast gulf in their upbringing. Stark had a way of judging people based solely on their characteristic merits than the heftiness of their bank account. Regardless of his money, though, nothing could hide the dysfunction of a childhood spent isolated from parents and starved of attention. He'd been driven to the conclusion that he could only be great if he were the best in his academic fields.

Within forty minutes, they emerged from the hotel with take-out containers and settled onto the gray leather inside Stark's private Bentley. Mister Jarvis was quick to return behind the wheel and merged into traffic. That Howard traveled with his own limousine, choosing to ship the Bentley to the countries he visited, no longer struck her as an extravagance. 

He'd nearly been shot during one of the few trips the Bentley hadn't accompanied him on. His relationship with the car had transitioned then from “mode of transportation” to “lucky underwear.” No amount of reassurance that his near-death experience had resulted from the rented limousine's lack of armor was able to move him. So “the lucky boxers” was now a permanent part of Stark's retinue. It was certainly more comfortable than riding the metro.

“Mister Jarvis, you may return to the hotel for the evening. We won't require further transportation until the morning,” Howard said once they'd pulled up in front of her apartment building.

“Yes, Sir. If you need anything, Sir, don't hesitate regardless of the time,” returned Mister Jarvis. There was a certain fondness in Jarvis' tone that seemed unusual given the short amount of time he'd worked for Stark.

Gwen moved ahead, crossing the green with its manicured lawn and ornamental trees, and entered the building. It was a new construction with top of the line technology and a guard seated at a security desk twenty-four seven. He greeted her respectfully. She returned the sentiment. But as soon as the elevator doors closed tightly behind them, hugging Howard became her top priority. She latched on with bone-splintering force where an ounce more pressure may have cracked ribs and bruised organs. 

“It's been too long.”

“We were only gone five months,” he pointed out while returning the hug.

“That's almost half a year.”

“Point.”

Fingers feathered into the hair at the back of his head before she kissed him. It wasn't a quick, chaste kiss either. Her mouth needed to be reminded of his taste. Fortunately, the lift settling on her floor interrupted them before smoke could start smoldering from their merged need, and they were forced to separate or risk being caught with their tongues down down each others throats by anyone waiting on the opposite side of the doors.

The ten feet between them and her apartment had never felt more interminable. She applied key to lock to let them in, and realizing she'd been remiss in properly greeting Peggy earlier, she stroked the other woman's cheek and kissed her without hesitation. The kiss was reciprocated with none of the uncertainty that had been there during the first year of their relationship. They'd grown to womanhood in an era where Christian morals had infused every aspect of life in Britain, where bisexuality and homosexuality had been strictly condemned.

But she'd taken the lead in helping the other woman explore the more forbidden side of their sexuality. Dismissing the notion that her sometimes-lover was more willing to explore that territory as a result of depression following the loss of Captain Rogers would have been foolish. She would have been lying if she'd disclaimed the possibility Peggy actively wished she were kissing Captain Rogers instead. 

“Am I the luckiest fella in the world, or what?” Howard asked, effectively interrupting their moment.

Gwen was all smiles when she removed her tongue from Peggy's mouth. “I think that's a new record.”

Peggy agreed.

“Naturally I'm going to count this among my many blessings. Seeing two foxes snogging in the middle of a private apartment with the shades down? Please, carry on.”

Peggy was quick to remind them of their responsibilities. “There will be no more snogging until we've deciphered the information from Flick Five. Is your office any closer to his or her actual identity?”

“Hardly, and Colonel Fury is frustratingly closed-lipped on the matter. I would have turned him down for his refusal to share his contact's identity were it not for the critical nature of the situation developing in West Berlin. Alexander Shelepin has an advantage over us. We must nullify it quickly.”

What followed was a nine hour blitz wherein the three highest ranking members of S.H.I.E.L.D camped out around a coffee table littered with food containers and documents she'd brought from the office. Surveillance photos of concrete reinforcements going up around the barbed wire fence separating West Berlin from the rest of East Germany were disturbing. The swath of ground between was coined the Dead Zone for the number of civilians who'd been shot attempting to cross the border.

A brief break around hour three allowed both women to change from their finery into something more comfortable for lounging around the apartment. When they returned, Howard scribbled a few notes into his ever-present notepad. Gwen brought a pot of coffee over to refill their mugs and folded her legs beneath her to settle next to him again. Tension caused him to twitch. The odd reaction wasn't a new phenomenon, but Peggy was quick to cup a hand beneath her elbow and pull her attention back to their paperwork to prevent hovering.

A while later, Howard announced, “Reports from the DOD and DIA indicate the Soviets have developed a nuclear warhead capable of being fired from a tank. While the CIA seems convinced the KGB has meddling fingers in a Kurdish uprising attempting to develop an independent Kurdistan.”

“I've already dismissed those claims as diversionary,” Gwen said. “If you'll look at the original transmissions received by those organizations, you'll notice they were sent in outdated encryption coding. Those codes have been in allied hands for more than a year, and given the Soviet's increasing technology, you can assume they've changed their coding since.”

“Diverting our attentions from what, though?” asked Peggy.

“I haven't been able to pin that down, yet. Some of the information from Flick Five contains details about what Shelepin refers to as Operation One. I was initially excited when I made the translations, but after seeing the rest of this, I cleared it as more diversion.”

Annoyance flared across Stark's visage. “Passing off data that seems outlandish is a reckless way to run an intelligence organization, Agent Holcomb. Show me what you've set aside.”

Not feeling the weight of his disappointment was impossible. He looked at her like that, as though she were small and insignificant, and she wanted to crawl into a hole and never observe the light of day again. She collected a stack from Flick Five's packet off the kitchen counter and settled it before Howard, who flipped through several photos. 

They depicted a pyramid-shaped structure inside a cavernous hangar. Made of smooth, gray metal, the object stood six meters high with a base three times as a large. Cables suspended it from the ceiling so that it appeared to hover a few feet off the floor. Five characters of Cyrillic script were stenciled along the base, and the photo appeared to have been taken off-hours.

“What do the characters say?” Peggy asked.

“Perun. Our archives indicate the name belongs to an early Slavic deity associated with thunder and lightning,” she responded.

Dubious, Peggy asked, “We're not actually suggesting the Soviets have a weather machine, are we?”

“I'm not making any assumptions at so early a stage. What I need, though, are detailed weather reports for all Soviet Union territories for the past six months.” His sidelong glance turned toward Gwen.

Stark peering in her direction without really looking at her left stooped shoulders and a lowered chin in its wake, and it was clear she was being sent on a secretary's errand. Standing, she hurried to dress against the chilly autumn air because getting him those weather reports required a trip back to the office. She paused near the door to get her keys. “Give me an hour. It'll take that long to pull up such detailed information.”

Someone was always at the office. Their security department made sure a number of agents were on site twenty-four hours a day, and they weren't surprised to see her at such a late hour. A couple of the staff even helped her rifle through their archives department to gather the needed information. Howard's disappointment riding heavily on her shoulders lit a fire under her backside, that was for sure, because she was back within forty minutes, having taken a cab to speed up the trip.

“You were right,” she said after returning to the apartment. A printout was placed before Mister Stark. “Sevvostlag Correctional Camp experienced a three day heat wave raising the temperature from ten degrees Celsius to thirty-five. That phenomenon repeated on the same three days the following month and for each of the four months since.”

“Bleeding Hell.”

“Wasn't Sevvostlag closed down during the de-Stalinization efforts following the war?” he asked.

“A lot of places were reported closed through official channels that remain open to this day. Norilsk Correctional has experienced unusual dry spells. The prison island of Sakhalin was inundated with a bloody cyclone that killed the entire gulag population.”

“That's balls up,” Peggy muttered. “Coffee isn't strong enough. This calls for whiskey.”

“They don't make enough whiskey for this.”

“The world has been so focused on the space race that research into the manipulation of weather phenomenon seemed to stagnate. Most American researchers limited their creativity to localized ice cap melts to raise...”

Watching him stop mid-sentence to jot down several notes was nothing new, and Gwen remained quiet so as not to interrupt whatever train of thought had sparked his imagination.

Upon finishing his notation, he continued. “Limited their creativity to localized ice cap melts to raise sea levels in specific target areas. If this information is correct, and if they have developed a technology to harness certain weather phenomenon, this will cause a major shift in the war. The engineers could dry our environment and cause mass starvation.”

They were quiet while the moment and the possibilities sank in. Stark broke the silence to say, “This part of the world is your expertise, Agent Holcomb. How shall we proceed?”

“I thought after--”

Peggy interrupted by asking, “Did you learn a valuable lesson tonight? You may be older than us, but we've been in this business much longer.”

“I have.”

“Then how shall we proceed?”

“We're going to need guns. And an airplane, one of the new 717 prototypes.”

“Why such a specific model?” asked Peggy.

“The access hatch located in the underbelly. You can't parachute from most commercial planes. Their cabins are pressurized, and trying to open one of those doors in mid-flight will get you nowhere. Someone could parachute from the hatch in the underbelly.”

The other woman nodded in acknowledgment.

“Oh, and some parachutes! And chocolate.” 

No matter how experienced and knowledgeable she'd become over the past seven years, Peggy and Stark turned around and proved how much more there still was to learn. Their insight, the way they could work together and communicate in non-verbal cues, was the reason they were The Director and Agent Two. And she counted herself blessed to learn from them.

 

**Daily Notes: The Devilish Duo showed up in the SU today looking for me. I was late making contact by five days. They were worried about me on a ~~personal~~ professional level. Their intuition regarding this work reminds me that I still have so much to learn. Flick Five continues to confound me. What are his or her real affiliations? Fury trusts the intelligence but won't share any details. Note to self: Deck Fury next time you see him for being so tight-lipped. Need to find out more about Flick Five.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peggy finds Gwen in the shower and leaps to the conclusion that she's been raped. Gwen clears things up.


	3. 9 September 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy still mourns the loss of Captain America while Howard's neurosis creeps into the picture.

**9 September, 1961**

Gwen pulled the collar of a knee-length saffron coat, tailored to emphasize her waist and flaring toward the hem, higher against the brisk wind whipping through Kiev. Ermine lining the collar tickled softly against her cheek. She jogged across a busy side street in between cars with a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a package tucked under her arm. Anyone watching would have written her off as an accomplished businesswoman running an errand.

Stark's dry cleaning was slung over her shoulder when she left a launderer's establishment. Lunch consisting of olivye, borsch, and beef cutlets over mashed potatoes dangled from her fingers in a paper bag upon emerging from a restaurant, her empty coffee having been discarded inside. The package tucked under her arm was dropped off in a postal box labeled People's Commissariat Drop, and she finally picked up a few things Howard needed at a stationary supply before returning to the office.

She found their resident mechanical engineer tapping a pencil against his palm while staring at scrawled notations on a pair of large chalkboards. The tapping seemed like random fidgeting to most watchers. The observant, however, would note that Howard was actually bobbing his pencil in Morse code. Mental notes regarding Project Perun made up the bulk of the motions. Every now, and then, though, he interjected a note about a different project that required adjusting a particular chemical to achieve the desired result. And Heaven help the poor sot who came within three feet of him.

Lunch had been obliterated to remnants by the time Peggy dropped a massive binder of printed material in front of her. She jerked and rolled backward a few inches. Her glance slowly lifted to meet the other woman's gaze with a cocked brow. “Have I done something to make you hate me today?”

Confusion writ across the other woman's countenance prompted Gwen to indicate the binder. “My most egregious regret when it comes to accepting your invitation to join S.H.I.E.L.D is the sheer amount of paperwork involved. Put a pistol in my hand. Point me in the direction of goons who desperately need a foot shoved up their arses, but save me from paperwork.”

Speaking of arses, Peggy perched hers on the corner of the desk where ankle was tucked behind calf to maintain a ladylike stature. “Alas, paperwork is unavoidable. I thought we might do some last minute research on Alexander Shelepin. The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.”

“Also the bane of my existence. The best decision Khrushchev ever made was appointing Shelepin as the head of the KGB. He's a creative thinker. The man flooded intelligence organizations with false information to keep them distracted while he built a bloody weather machine. The KGB instantly took a leap forward in effectiveness when he came on board. If we can take him out, we could leave the organization in temporary turmoil.”

“Agreed. Where are we on mission readiness?”

“We're looking at a go time in five days. The team has been put together, briefed, and geared with appropriate weaponry. We're just waiting on KGB operatives to finish a monthly inspection of the site. Once the staff returns to normal numbers, we'll be set for launch.”

Peggy's fingers brushed against hers while both reached for the binder cover at once. The touch lingered longer than technically necessary. Each breath pressed the woman's bosom against the tailored lapels of her business jacket. A heavy swallow emphasized the sweeping lines of her throat.

And Gwen couldn't be fingered the culprit for the prolonged contact this time, though she did nothing to dissuade the moment. Knowing people were passing her office, sectioned off from the main floor by glass walls that provided not an ounce of privacy, was plenty to prevent them from making anything of the eye-fucking. Still, her body and heart were warmed that Peggy had instigated it. Her eyes dipped briefly to the other woman's cleavage, where a pendant was nestled.

A bit of playfulness born of the desire to make Agent Carter squirm, prompted her to help herself to caressing the pendant, running her fingertip underneath the chain from Peggy's collarbone to the swell of her bosom.

The other woman swallowed heavily again and glanced toward the glass wall.

“What's this?” asked Gwen. “Don't tell me you still wear the Catholic saints around your neck.”

“Hardly,” she responded while grasping Gwen's fingertips.

She shrugged off the grip and fished the pendant out to take a look. Turned out the item was a nineteen thirty American Indian Head nickel. A brow arched in question while she indicated the object. “I was unaware you are a numismatist.”

“I'm not. It belonged to Steve.” Peggy's eyes became downcast again, and it looked as though the conversation would end with that.

“It's okay to miss him. Anyone who says differently deserves a gunshot to the brain.”

A swift breath allowed the other woman to continue, “Steve and Bucky--” She tried again. “Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes often took the subway to Coney Island. It was only a nickel fare. He kept it to remind him of his friend. Maybe it's wrong that I took it from his personal effects, but I needed something concrete to remind me of him.”

“It's not wrong. I didn't know the captain, but I'd wager he would have turned himself ass over tits to make sure you had it in order to carry on his legacy and the memory of the good times he spent with Sergeant Barnes. Someone needs to remember that. Who better than you?” 

Unfortunately, their moment came to an abrupt halt when a crash from outside startled them. Gwen glanced up to find Howard in the midst of rearranging their main office space. One chalkboard knocked against a nearby desk when he sent it rolling across the floor. The second was pushed so hard it fell over a chair and ended up in a heap. Chairs, desks, and the water cooler were each evicted without due notice to clear space for him at the long, white wall.

“I can't work under these conditions!”

When he'd finally rearranged things, he proceeded to drag a chair over where he employed a pack of markers to continue his notations on the wall. Posters and diagrams were ripped down to be left in a crumpled mess on the carpet when they dared get in his way. A series of equations was interrupted when a new thought struck, prompting him to retrieve his pad to jot something down. The note was scratched through furiously as though an offensive thing only for him to make a new note beneath it.

Gwen noticed for the first time that writing in his notebook seemed to ease the tension from his expression. She glanced toward Peggy and shrugged helplessly, because knowing what to do or how to help him process whatever was going on inside that noggin of his was impossible. She could manipulate her enemy. She could drag confessions out of suspects, but she couldn't do a damn thing to save Howard Stark from his own demons.

***

Late that night after Howard had exhausted himself and couldn't stare at his equations any longer without foaming at the mouth, the trio left the office to return to her apartment. A second package was tucked beneath her arm as they raced through the driving rain to the safety of the Bentley where Mister Jarvis waited with the door open and sheltered by an umbrella. Steam rose from the hood of the car as cold rain met metal warmed by the running engine. Peggy was bitching about water sloshing into her heels by the time they arrived. Howard was much calmer than he'd been earlier that afternoon.

“Bollocks,” Gwen griped while waiting her turn to climb into the car. “Give me just a second, Mister Jarvis. This needs to go out with the evening post.”

She took off toward the corner and failed to see Howard ducking into the car while waving Edwin after her, so it came with some surprise that the spry man and his trusty umbrella were hot on her heels. A grateful smile greeted him when rain pattered against the nylon canopy instead of her head as she reached a postal box labeled Ministry of Communication Drop.

“You should be more careful of your health, Miss Holcomb. You'll catch your death in this rain.”

“Thank you, Mister Jarvis. I think it'll be some hours before I dry myself out after this deluge. Would you like to come in, dry off, and warm yourself with a Vodka when we get back to my place?”

“That would be highly irregular. What would they say about me in the trades were I caught fraternizing with my employer and his guests?”

“Technically, he's my guest, and if I want to fraternize--” Her comment came to a halt when she noticed the odd twinkle in his eyes. She punched his shoulder in a friendly manner. “You're yanking my leg. Despite my irritation, the offer stands.”

They returned to the Bentley, and Gwen slid in next to her companions. Warmth from the car's heating systems had her nose running in moments.

 

**Daily Notes: Really starting to worry about Howard. He seems manic lately and having a hard time concentrating on any one subject. Jotting in his notebook has a calming effect. Classic symptom of self-soothing. Holy Hell, Howard is ten handfuls, and I wish I could make him comfortable in his skin.**


	4. 13 September, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission to clear the Hedge and steal the weather machine gets underway, but S.H.I.E.L.D. finds an unknown agent already in play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is already completed, so I'll be updating with new chapters fairly quickly. Decided to upload two chapters in one day since the first was relatively short. Next chapter, we'll check in with dear old General Karpov and company.

****

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****

****

**13 September, 1961**

“Team Absinthe, comm check,” ordered Gwen. She received fifteen responses from the hand-selected members of Project Perun. “Mister Stark, can you clear the static from Agent Baro's comm device?”

“Agent Applesauce, who came up with our team names?” Julian asked, a lively twinkle in his eye.

His partner, Dimitry Vetrov, chimed in, “Three guesses, Agent Orangutan, and his initials are H and S.”

“Speaking of orangutans, you've given me an idea for my next prank.”

“Leave Eastman and West out of it this time,” she interrupted them to say. “That particular joke has run its course. Also, they're still recovering from their allergic reaction to super glue.”

“I really do feel badly about that,” Agent Baro reassured. He held up the three-fingered scout salute. “Henceforth, super glue shall not be used upon organic, living people. Scout's honor. Next time, it will involve copious amounts of Sellotape.”

She had a hard time keeping a straight face while pinning him with a look meant to rebuke. Baro was incapable of being serious during high stress situations it seemed. Their pre-mission banter relieved some of the tension in the air, though.

“Your comms should be clear now. Incidentally, I could have used someone like you in the SSR, Agent Baro,” Howard said through their devices.

“Sure, Mister Stark. If you were trying to build Hell on Earth,” Vetrov said.

The system was rechecked once they received Stark's all-clear and met minimum standards. Minimum was all they could hope for given their extreme distance from S.H.I.E.L.D radio towers, as they were currently cruising over rural Siberia to reach their drop point fifty miles outside Murmansk. They should consider themselves blessed the signal was as clear as it was.

Her attention was diverted to the cockpit where Agent Aristov, a pilot with Aeroflot and S.H.I.E.L.D asset, shouted in distressed Russian into his headset. He rattled off their flight details to the nearest air traffic controller station. Their prototype 727, designated Aeroflot 717, had all the necessary credentials and was listed as part of the commercial fleet. They even had a flight number that would clear a KGB fact check when the transmission was invariably picked up by their receivers.

Aristov continued, _“Experiencing navigational malfunctions and yoke failure. Losing altitude at a critical rate. Cannot correct toward Murmansk airport.”_

She signaled her team, who quietly made their way to the central underbelly exit, the only exit that could be opened while the upper cabins were under pressure.

Peggy's voice slithered into her ear. “Agent Holcomb, you'll arrive at optimal jump point in thirty seconds. Team Baijiu is in position and ready to move in at your order. Be safe, Team Absinthe.”

The hands on her watch ticked down to Mission Go, and when they reached their position, she opened the hatch and was first to step out into open air. Her arms crossed over her chest to avoid banging elbows on the narrow opening. That rush of adrenaline that came with free falling was like nothing else in the world. She felt more alive, more focused, and more everything with the hot flood of danger zipping through her veins.

She was the first to take the plunge and the last to pull her chute to savor the zinging sensation longer. It became a game during those few minutes. How long could she put off pulling the cord without risking injury? Every time she placed a deployment point, she broke it to risk going even lower. Finally, with only moments left to spare before she risked breaking her fool neck with a late deployment, she yanked the cord, and her chute flared open, jerking her body painfully.

“Agent Holcomb, your antics are not appreciated,” Peggy said with a hard tone.

Busted, though she hardly saw how her particular addictions were any of Peggy's business. Responding, though, could have risked giving away their position. Radio silence was maintained to preserve mission stability, and she cruised the last few dozen feet.

Gwen came in for a silent landing on the building's roof and immediately unhooked her chute and the rifle held in a harness on her back. Its sniperscope gave her full night vision capability that was employed when she crouched behind the building's parapets to spot them while the rest of the team came in for their landings. The quality was so good she could see a number of guards pacing the secured fence surrounding the facility some dozen meters away. Said guards were calm and unhurried.

They had a limited amount of time to gain access to the building and start sweeping floors to clear the facility, so she wasted no time in signaling Agent Vetrov to move in with his kit. Vetrov was a security specialist. He could find and disable the most advanced security systems in existence. The access door leading down into the building was cleaned of security sensors designed to cause an alarm when the switch was tripped and opened within three minutes.

Things were not as expected upon descending into the top floor. Distant sounds from deeper in the building denoted that the place was in chaos. Men were screaming orders, and gunfire sounded more like popcorn popping in a pan from such a distance. 

A door from the emergency stairwell flung open and banged against the wall to admit a man in a KGB uniform. Said man raced toward them. The whites of his eyes combined with wild body language depicted the panic from downstairs even if the blood coloring his uniform was too subtle a clue. Agent Simmons dropped him with a bullet between the eyes long before he could reach their position.

Gwen risked breaking radio silence. “Confirm your position, Team Baijiu.”

“We're at the predetermined staging area and not within sight of the structure,” Peggy responded.

“Acknowledged.”

Only a limited number of possibilities existed explaining the commotion once she'd determined the second team hadn't launched ahead of schedule. She had a fair idea but wanted to wait for confirmation. A hand gesture signaled the team forward, and they passed, silent as ghosts, down a long corridor, moving past doors leading into office spaces on either side of the corridor. Sweepers moved ahead and behind the main team clearing each room to ensure no stragglers were left behind. The fastest way to be caught was for an unexpected enemy left in their wake to call a warning.

Two floors were cleared in such a manner before they entered the main intelligence hub that was filled with computer equipment and television monitors. One monitor showed guards pacing on the fence. Another screen displayed a dark figure on the hangar floor dropping two KGB agents with hand to hand techniques before racing toward an exit. Two other hostiles were on his heels. If they signaled the gate house, the mission was done, so she was less cautious than she otherwise might have been.

“Clear the hangar floor and hold the facility.”

Once the order was given, she bailed out of the intelligence hub, attached her line to a handrail on the catwalk, and leaped over the side to descend to the ground floor. She took off after the fleeing stranger and his pursuers. Trouble was they already had a lead on her. No way was she making up that much distance before they came within range of the gate guards. 

Swinging her rifle up onto her shoulder in mid-stride allowed her to be ready to sight and fire when she planted her feet. The shot hit one of the guards and brought him down. A suppressor affixed to the muzzle lessened the gunshot to the pop of a Christmas cracker instead of a cannon. She repositioned and downed the remaining guard in under thirty seconds. 

The stranger skidded to a halt and glanced back over a shoulder. Shadows prevented her from getting any kind of look that may have identified the rogue agent. Said agent was reasonably broad and of average height. The thickness of the form seemed much more masculine. Before she could give chase, he streaked toward the distant treeline and disappeared into the woods.

Agent Baro caught up with her by that point. “Facility is clear. Ten dead on arrival. No wounded.”

She shouldered her rifle again, and said, “Team Baijiu, we have an unknown agent in the field. Likely male. Approximately one point eight meters tall and eighty-five kilos. Heading southwest through the forest. Move to intercept him on the access road.”

“Acknowledged. What's your situation?”

“The Hedge has been cleared by unknown agent. Ten DoA. Three kill shots fired by Team Absinthe. We're rendezvousing and moving to clear fence security.”

***

Howard smeared droplets of blood between two fingers while perusing the series of bodies stretched across the hangar floor. Being able to determine what was happening behind his facade was dodgy, as he emoted very little about his feelings. One could only wait until he felt like sharing.

“This kill pattern is familiar,” he finally announced. “I've seen this rogue agent's work before somewhere. Somewhere is such a vague term, but it will have to suffice, as I cannot express any greater detail. You say you suspect the culprit of being Flick Five?”

“I do,” Gwen responded.

“Why?”

“Because I tipped him off before we left Kiev.”

That admission drew a sharp look from Peggy, who said, “We know precious little about him. How could you risk the success of such an important mission to test whether or not he's loyal to our cause?”

“It wasn't just about testing his loyalty to the cause.”

“You endangered the mission. This is a weather machine, Agent Holcomb.” She punched a finger angrily in the machine's direction. “This being taken out of enemy hands was top priority over anything having to do with Flick Five.”

Tension bristled between the two women.

Peggy continued in the silence that followed. “This kind of wild west behavior is unacceptable. I expect this sort of devil-may-care attitude from our American personnel, but you are not American. Running into a situation with guns blazing without informing the chain of command is highly irregular, especially for an agent as seasoned as you.”

“I think you're overreacting,” Gwen finally said. Any followup statement she may have made was cut off when Peggy continued her angry tirade. Honestly, she'd never seen the woman so worked up.

“You could have been killed.”

She shrugged in response. “I spent from the day of my birth until Howard's serum corrected my physical imbalance knowing that each day could be my last. I've been prepared to meet whatever shadowy maker exists in the afterlife my entire life.”

“You will not make me go through Captain Rogers again. I won't lose you, too!” shouted Peggy, a tendril of hair slipping free of her sensible bun and color rising above her collar.

Grinding teeth could have been heard in the silence that followed.

Howard, who had stopped playing with his blood splatter, suddenly rose and barked a few orders to refocus the team around their mission. The nosy onlookers who seemed to be enjoying the outburst received further abuse when he snapped, “We have a limited window to get this work done, you gape-mouthed gasbags. Move.”

Knowing how much Peggy despised being emotional in public, Gwen turned the conversation instead of adding to the problem. “Flick Five is a valuable asset if we can trust his loyalty. We need to know that his intelligence is good and accurate. By feeding him information, I could test whether or not he's reliable, and if so, how deep his connections in the KGB go. More importantly, though, I wanted to give him time to vacate the premises in the event he was assigned to this location. We weren't in a position to interview the staff before nullifying them.”

Clearly, the other woman wasn't in the mood to forgive so quickly. It was difficult to tell, though, whether she was angrier over the night's events or having engaged in an outburst in front of their subordinates. One thing was certain: Peggy was likely to render a severe tongue-lashing the next time they were in private together.

Separate corners were required, so Gwen paced toward where Howard was setting up his equipment to begin testing the device. A crew of five science techs Stark referred to as “lab monkeys” were on hand to help with set up and break down. Their window was narrow before KGB realized their facility had gone unresponsive and dispatched operatives.

He greeted her with a brusque “I'm working.” The man seemed to reconsider his laconic reception before continuing, “Your relationship drama need not be discussed presently. Wait. I forgot. We are only 'sometimes' relationships.”

So he was going to have a go at her, too. She shut that down pretty quickly with a question. “Flick Five was a member of the SSR, wasn't he?”

“Most likely. Between the encryption method and the combat style, the probability is high.”

“Can we narrow down the possibilities?”

“You can cross the captain and the sergeant off the list of possibilities.”

“Hilarious.” She paused and rubbed a hand over her face. “I get it. Everyone is irritated with me. They think I'm piss-proud and reckless. Can we not measure our issues against a ruler right now?”

“Given the blood splatter and injury types, you're looking at a brawler of considerable skill. He is less nuanced than a master of an Asian-based martial arts style but also prefers to strike fast, kill quickly, and overwhelm his enemy. One possibility is Corporal Dugan. He fits the profile and was one of the best pugilists assigned to our unit.”

“Timothy Dugan? Last time I heard that name, he was working with Colonel Fury.”

“He was but hasn't been seen for several years. You can also add Lord James Falsworth to the list of possibilities. While he wasn't directly a member of the SSR, he worked closely with Captain Rogers on several missions as Union Jack. He would be fully aware of standard SSR espionage techniques. His brawling style would also allow for this kill pattern.”

“Thank you for the information. I'll let you focus on your work now.”

She shoved away from the device to allow the team to do their various jobs. The part of her that was thoroughly used to being answerable to no one couldn't comprehend why they were upset. If she wanted to throw her life away on a reckless need to feel alive for thirty seconds, what right did they have to prevent it? Fucking them didn't mean she wanted to move in together and have fat babies. Fucking them certainly didn't require the R word.

Conversation took a back seat during the following two hours that had been allotted for the testing and deconstruction of the machine. Such things took priority to any relationship drama. They were not a daytime television show, after all. And while Howard's tech crew started dismantling the device for loading onto a military grade truck, Peggy's agents rifled the filing cabinets for information. Any KGB secrets they could get their hands on would be immensely helpful.

One of Peggy's team placed a stack of folders on a nearby table, so Gwen thumbed through them. Seemed mostly like standard grade KGB intelligence. They were monitoring S.H.I.E.L.D activity and had a working roster of top level agents. Thankfully, it was an incomplete roster. Her anonymity was paramount to successfully running things in Kiev. The last thing she needed was to be dodging assassins bent on gunning her down.

One other thing she noticed from her brief foray were numerous folders emblazoned with a serpent emblem. They contained personnel rosters of all those assigned to what Shelepin labeled his opus. Those rosters were tucked beneath her arm for later examination. Flick Five had been stationed to the facility. Maybe his real name was on one of those rosters.

By the time KGB did arrive to take back the facility, Project Perun had cleared out, leaving Alexander Shelepin's men empty handed and with a lot of explaining to do.

 

**Daily Notes: ~~Don't they know I'm doing my best to be emotionally invested? The thought of having to consider how my actions affect them is near panic-inducing. I was prepared for no-strings-attached sex. Nothing could prepare me for these emotions. It's getting to the point I won't be able to do this with them much longer. They're getting too close and making me uncomfortable.~~**

**Flick Five was at the facility and took down most of the threats before we even arrived. Turns out, Fury's agent is male and much deeper Russian intelligence than I expected. His skill level is something to be admired, though the way he moves seems strangely familiar. I don't like trusting people I haven't met face to face.**


	5. 20 September, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions spark between General Karpov and Aleksander Lukin over the Winter Soldier.

**20 September, 1961**

“Alexander Shelepin has become a problem,” General Karpov said while stepping from the lift inside one of numerous facilities containing an underground operation referred to as Project Motherland.

Aleksander Lukin, a young man of seventeen years, glanced up from the daily paper to greet his mentor. “Because he was promoted over you?” The observation received a dark, warning look, prompting him to lift his hands in surrender.

General Karpov allowed the impertinence to slide and approached a glass wall looking into Rodchenko's laboratory. Silence blanketed the antechamber so both men could hear the muffled screams from inside, screams born of frustration rather than real pain.

A large machine resided beyond the glass. Part of it was suspended from the ceiling and could be swung into place over whomever was placed in the chair beneath. The chair was presently empty, but several technicians fought to propel the Winter Soldier into it. Another shout accompanied his cybernetic arm shoving a technician hard enough the poor sot's body weight broke several computer reels lining the wall. Bits of blood and brain matter remained long after the body sagged to the floor.

An electrified rod was introduced to the arm in response, crippling the extremity and producing another furious bellow from the red-faced asset. The rod then punched against the back of his knee, which set him off balance enough for the techs to finally get him into position. Even when the straps were in place, Yakov's body bucked and writhed in an attempt to gain freedom.

“Already?” Karpov asked with a distinct note of concern. “We're being forced to refresh his programming at an alarming rate lately. That is twice this month he's become unstable. If something more permanent isn't done, he could prove more trouble than he's worth.”

Aleksander couldn't cover the sharpness of his glance or the flutter in his voice when he said, “That isn't your decision to make, Comrade. The asset is my acquisition. I'm the one who found him near death in that ravine. The final call as to his fate is mine to make.” He knew continued impertinence was a mistake the moment it left his mouth.

Karpov turned slightly, broad shoulders barely restrained by the fine cut of his military uniform. “Who do you work for, Aleksander?”

“It's Mister Lukin to you.” His pulse pounded erratically.

“Don't make me ask again, Aleksander.” Emphasis was placed upon his given name the second time, and General Karpov moved forward into closer proximity, all barrel-chested and charged with such intensity he became an imposing edifice of Russian aggression.

Attempts to stand his ground denigrated into something much more wishy-washy upon having the man who'd rescued him from Kronos violating unspoken laws of proximity. Surely nothing more discomfiting existed than that cold, steady glare trying to will him into forsaking his attempts at establishing independence.

He was forced to cave, and whispered, “You.” The word was overpowered by the sounds of screams emanating from the laboratory.

“Speak up, Boy.”

“Y-you! You! I work for you, General Karpov.”

Apparently satisfied, the other man returned to watching the agonized arch of Yakov's body straining against his bonds while Rodchenko's machine did its good work. “Despite his recent failure and the infiltration of the Hedge by enemy agents, Shelepin has managed to evade Premier Khrushchev's ire. He plays the political game well.”

“And he's standing between you and the KGB that is rightfully yours.”

“I built the organization into what it is today. The leadership should have been handed to me, but Khrushchev, Shelepin, and their cronyism denied me what is rightfully mine. I do not like being denied what is rightfully mine.”

“What would you like for me to do?”

“Keep a closer eye on the asset the next time he goes out. Determine if something environmental is triggering these lapses in programming. Is he meeting someone who's triggering an old memory? Does a certain smell recall memories of his past? We need him controllable. We need to trust him to work independently in the field.”

Lukin inclined his head. He left Karpov, then, to step inside the lab where Doctor Rodchenko was repositioning dials for the second phase of the brainwashing technique. A hand settled on Yakov's bare, organic shoulder. Having those wildly confused eyes turn empty and pliant brought mixed emotions. That core part of his gut full of primordial instinct felt like he was watching the breaking of a wild stallion with whip and bit.

“Relax. You are safe here. You are home.” His voice dropped in tone and pitch, becoming even and unhurried. “Compliance is required for service. Can you comply?”

The last spark of awareness drained from James' expression when he went back under, and the man responded, “I am happy to comply.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Team S.H.I.E.L.D faces a moral dilemma, and Gwen undergoes a crisis of the sexual kind.


	6. 23 September, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team squabbles over what should be done with their new weather machine.

**23 September, 1961**

Three days of evidence analysis produced some very usable information that would give S.H.I.E.L.D an advantage over the KGB, but the biggest source of contention involved the weather machine. Were they morally obligated to refrain from using it against the innocent people of Russia, or was the growing intensity of the Cold War enough to justify turning the Soviet Union into a wasteland from drought and heatwave? Were they obligated to share its existence with the other intelligence organizations of the world and then turn the machine itself over to the United Nations?

Having Howard come down on the conservative side of the issue was an eye-opening experience and had produced a heated discussion that was ongoing even when Gwen keyed into her apartment with her sometimes-lovers behind her. She would have wagered that Stark, of all people, would be eager to utilize the device and therefore come down in favor of her argument. Sucked to be her when the pair decided to gang up on her. What was she supposed to do in the face of their united front?

“You're punishing me for the mission, aren't you,” she quipped while tossing her keys on the table beside the front door. “Of course you are. You were both angry because I took unnecessary risks.”

“Because everything revolves around Gwen Holcomb and her magical vagina,” Howard snapped.

She glanced helplessly in Peggy's direction.

“This has nothing to do with our sometimes-relationship and everything to do with acceptable morality. We cannot punish millions of innocent people by drastically affecting the weather because their officials are soulless bastards,” continued Peggy. “And frankly, I'm disturbed that you think it is.”

“War is hard. There is nothing moral about what it takes to win a war when the threat of a nuclear response is on the line.”

“Do you think we don't know that? The things we sacrificed and the compromises we made during The War still weigh on our consciences. We will have to live with those things the rest of our lives.”

“If you bring up The War one more time...”

Peggy as clearly beyond the realm of frustration and made a wordless noise somewhere between disgust and disbelief.

“You weren't the only ones involved with Nazi Germany. You weren't the only ones who lost people or sacrificed.” Gwen finally threw up her hands and stepped into the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. They were going to need gallons of it to get through the night.

Conversation was forestalled when Howard stopped in the midst of preparing to speak in favor of whipping out Notepad to jot down a few things. Peggy, meanwhile, stepped into the other room to use the loo. Breaking for a moment to allow the rising tension to diffuse seemed like a beneficial thing, so she poured three glasses of wine in the silence that followed.

If nothing else, she was beginning to suspect jumping into a sexual coalition with them may have been a mistake. Their liaison had started beautifully. Occasional sex between three lonely people who were much too busy or mentally unsound to sustain the relationship that came with regular sex had been optimal. That had worked. That had been enjoyable. Sustaining that, however, appeared impossible under the growing tension of a burgeoning emotional connection.

How could she function with two people breathing down the back of her neck and constantly reminding her of the need to be careful with her life? The thought of that lodged a hard knot of anxiety in her throat and made breathing more difficult. Fingers clenched on the edge of her kitchen island. She suddenly felt for all the world like the apartment was closing in around her, making the walls smaller and tighter until continued breathing seemed impossible. They _cared_ about whether she lived or died. They _expected_ her to stay alive for them and to care whether they returned safely.

Tension threatening to make her break into small pieces snapped suddenly, allowing a quick exhalation when Peggy, who had apparently returned without her noticing, inquired if she was all right. The sudden voice in close proximity startled her, and she nearly knocked down the filled wine glasses.

“F-fine,” she stammered.

The other woman was clearly dubious but returned to their previous topic. “So can we put this conversation to bed and settle with the notion we aren't using it against the Russians?”

“We'll have a weather machine. They will have the capability of building another one, and we'll posture on either side of our fences threatening to set it off while simultaneously knowing we can't to prevent them from retaliating. If we don't strike now, it will become another nuclear stockpile.”

“The damn thing should never have been built to begin with,” Howard muttered while jamming Notepad back into the pocket inside his jacket.

“You and that stance just seem so incongruous. You're a scientist. I thought you would be fully invested in testing and utilizing the machine if for no other reason than to prove it's possible.”

“Clearly you remained in bed on the sixth of August, nineteen forty-five,” he whispered.

“The dropping of Little Boy on Hiroshima?”

Howard refusing to meet someone's eyes meant he was dealing with some serious internal dialogue, so she didn't interrupt. He finally said, “When you make choices that affect millions of people, you'd better have a damn good reason other than 'just to prove it's possible.' What we detonated that day... There are certain hostilities that nothing can justify the usage of.”

In a rare moment of empathy, she touched his arm. Seeing his emotional distress had the unexpected effect of making her want to protect him from whatever source caused the pain. “Then we won't activate it. Simple as that.”

He seemed surprised by her response.

And because emotional vulnerability and Gwen Holcomb were like oil and water, she couldn't resist making a crack to relieve the tension. “But can't I just make one deluge over KGB headquarters? For Alexander Shelepin's benefit, of course. After all the dirty, communist assholes he's had his mouth around, he's due for a strong shower.”

At least both responded with a chuckle.

Conversation following the contentious evening proved much more innocuous while the trio shared a home-cooked meal. Dishes were left for the following morning in favor of curling up on the sofa in front of a crackling fire to enjoy the respite, a respite involving catching up on their personal lives. Naturally, the running joke remained “what personal life?” Being the top three agents in S.H.I.E.L.D meant long hours and very little private time. 

Were they seeing anyone outside of their weird dynamic? Two responded in the negative, as Gwen would take to her grave that her brief encounter with the Winter Soldier could barely count as sex much less as seeing someone. It had been more like a manifestation of anger, frustration, and the desperate need for adrenaline to make her feel alive instead of a zombie stumbling around in a fog. “Seeing someone” for Howard amounted to a non-committal reference to three or four models he'd been out with but whose names he hadn't cared to remember.

After a while, their conversation dwindled, and they melted into the relaxation together. She even resisted the urge to protest when Howard leaned into Peggy and pulled Gwen into the shelter of one of his arms, her cheek pillowed on his chest. He smelled of Chanel Pour Monsieur and cigar smoke, and the hints of lemon and tobacco mingled pleasantly in her nostrils. 

She didn't realize her fingers were tangled with Peggy's, their hands joined across Howard's abdomen, until the other woman gave hers a brief squeeze. Her sometimes-lover's eyes were half-lidded and framed by thick eyelashes, the woman's lips slightly parted in a look that emoted sexual desire. Tingling seized Gwen's eternally-hungry naughty bits, and she felt no shame in stretching across Stark's lap to mold her mouth against Peggy's. Far be it from her to deny Agent Carter's baser inclinations. 

Their mouths were warm and kiss-swollen within moments. Any discomfort caused by stretching across Howard was lessened when he grasped her buttocks and urged her astride his lap where she could better reach their lover's mouth, allowing her to more comfortably dart her tongue between Peggy's lips. At the same time, it allowed him to massage the heel of his palm against Gwen's crotch.

She pressed her hips toward him when the contact elicited a slow burn throughout her loins and lower stomach. It made concentrating on Peggy more difficult, for sure, but she wasn't dissuaded from opening the woman's blouse. Said blouse began the pile of clothing on the floor. It concluded with Howard's boxers, and the three melded together in a hedonistic tangle of limbs straight off the Khajuraho temples in India.

Her lover's nipples pebbled into hard kernels under the pressure of lips and tongue, but being contented with suckling the woman's breasts didn't last long, not when there was more fertile ground awaiting her. A honed plane of muscles descended into a neatly trimmed bush at the apex of Peggy's legs. The tip of her tongue nuzzled the woman's clit and prompted abs to ripple and flex beneath her fingertips. No soft moans were elicited, but that didn't bruise Gwen's ego. Erratic hitching of breath in Peggy's throat, however, did.

“Having your cum on my tongue is like cheesecake and strawberries,” she murmured.

Howard's indrawn breath ended in a rushed, “Oh my fucking science, you two are going to kill me.”

Rather than responding verbally, Peggy simply smoothed her fingers through Gwen's hair.

The brief interlude concluded when she buried her face between the other woman's legs again to suck a swollen clit between her lips. Two fingers delved into the wetness she'd elicited, but Howard, the naughty bastard, finally decided to join the fray and leech some of her attention away by thumbing her own clit. A quick circle of her hips encouraged more contact which was granted when he rubbed the head of his penis against damp folds of flesh.

“Wait, this is a little awkward, and I'm getting a stitch in my side from leaning over at such a severe angle.” That said, she adjusted her position to that of kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa, grasped Peggy's hips and urged her onto the center cushion, and waved a hand to indicate her general rear.

Howard didn't rejoin them right away. Rather, he padded buck naked across the apartment to find his pocketbook and returned with a few condoms. One packet was opened, and he suited himself up before kneeling behind her.

Gwen's sound of encouragement was muffled against her other lover's snatch when Howard sank into her. The ripples of friction working all the tiny nerve endings in her sex were pleasant, and she enjoyed that the intensity built naturally and in a slower burn than usual. What mattered was feeling emotionally alive and the giving and receiving of pleasure.

Within moments, Peggy's thighs were trembling with unspent tension, her legs splayed wide, and her fingers bunching in Gwen's locks. There was no lingering cautiousness, by that point, ingrained from being reared in God-fearing Britain. There was only the hot burn of orgasm. The woman came with body arched, tension causing muscles to seize and tremble. Breath was held until the final spasms of orgasm allowed a soft whimper to slither from Peggy's lungs. 

Gwen didn't let her off the hook that easily, though. They had five months worth of tension to work out, so while she ground herself back onto his penis, she also reengaged with Peggy's sex. One orgasm just wasn't enough to leave her imprinted upon their psyches. One orgasm wasn't going to compete with the memory of Captain Rogers. She was squeezing her internal muscles around Stark's rod and offering up a pleased purr to accompany his soft whimper when a realization dawned. Where had the desire to please them and become a fixture in their hearts come from? When had she started to care about them in more than the general “these are my comrades, and I want them to be safe” way? How was she supposed to handle that kind of involvement?

Something lurched in her chest that felt rather like her heart skipping a beat. Tension returned as a knot of panic lodged in her throat. It became clear soon after that Howard was reaching the end of his tether and wouldn't last much longer, and for the first time, her own orgasm seemed a distant memory. The interlude was pleasant, to be sure. But compared to the two people who were writhing in the throes of their own releases, hers just wasn't going to trigger no matter how much her male lover tried to stave off his own in a desperate bid to last just a little longer.

For the first time in her sixty-odd years of life, Gwen had to fake an orgasm to avoid bruising any egos.

 

**Daily Notes: What the Hell is wrong with me? I haven't had sex with them in five-damn-months, and I somehow fail to orgasm? We are considering having a serious chat with our clitoris about proper sexual responses. It will go something like this:**

**Dear Joy Buzzer,**

**What are you doing? It is completely unfair for you to erupt with the  
** slightest provocation when fucking TWS only for you to turn your buzzer off  
during sex with our lovers. That's like a rooster crowing at midnight. Are you  
experiencing shell shock or something? Get with the program! 

**Sincerely,  
Your Brain.**

**Also, figured out that some of Howard's issues are a result of having taken part in Project Manhattan. For some reason, he feels responsible for the deaths of all those people in Japan. It's not an emotional response I can understand, but if he's hurting, that's all that matters. How can I help him to make peace with his involvement?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: More intelligence comes in from Flick Five.


	7. 9 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flick Five makes another intelligence dump.

**9 October, 1961**

A plain coffee mug dipped precariously, the angled surface of strong, black coffee touching its ceramic lip. Delicate red script shouted up from a handwritten message on a notebook page found in Flick Five's latest drop. It was written in Cyrillic. Reading the script was second nature after the number of years she'd spent specializing in the Slavic regions.

_“Thanks for your warning about the impending mission at the Hedge. I would not_  
like to have been forced into choosing between being gunned down by your agents  
or risking my cover. Here is to many good fortunes in our association.”

Most notable about the message was the handwriting itself. Flick Five excelled at penmanship. A few things could be inferred about the rogue agent based on that. Patience was a strong suit, as each letter was formed with textbook correctness. The possibility existed Flick Five was not a native writer of Cyrillic. Such studied letter formation was less common with native writers of any given language. Also, women tended toward neater writing than men. That threw her earlier assessment of the agent's maleness into doubt. It was possible she'd misjudged size and shape in the turmoil of combat.

Setting aside the note allowed her to focus on the rest of the included items. A photo showed a scrap of translation to Cyrillic from an earlier Scandinavian writing system that read “Gods do not live in the sky. We live on the Earth. And you do so at our pleasure.” That was weird enough. Markings stenciled on a crate, however, were what prompted a reaction, and she pressed the intercom button on her desk. “Miss Petya, get the file on early Slavic religion from archives.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” came her secretary's reply.

The afternoon was spent rifling through copies of old texts with a nagging feeling in the back of her brain that she'd seen the stenciled Cyrillic before. Flick Five believed the markings connected with the research branch of the KGB, who were working on a secretive project called Operation Two. They were under orders from Shelepin to put all other projects on hold to focus on the research and development for his new brainchild. Anything he considered a brainchild deserved close scrutiny.

Buried at the bottom of their files were a few copied pages from the Primary Chronicle, an early account of the history of the Kievan Rus. There, she found a reference to a deity named Volos, who was reported to be the god most associated with peasants. A secondary branch of worship believed he punished oath-breakers with disease and pestilence.

Shelepin was working on a project that involved afflicting disease on oath-breakers, and that sounded an awful lot like biological warfare. Any mission involving the threat of mass poisoning or infectious disease took top priority and required a phone call to Carter and Stark, who were both in Moscow engaged in a private meeting with Premier Khrushchev. Her sometimes lovers—her lovers had chosen to personally attend the summit instead of forcing her attendance in their stead. Given Stark's often inappropriate behavior in public, it said something powerful that he was a more appropriate good will ambassador than her. She had been left far away in Kiev for good reasons.

Stark didn't return her calls until much later in the evening, but the lateness of the hour wasn't a bother. She hadn't even left the office yet and didn't seem to be in a position to retire any time soon. The receiver was cradled between her shoulder and ear while flipping through a few maps. Used coffee filters littered the kitchenette in the break room nearby.

“When being served sinfully expensive caviar that was imported from Britain, who imported it from Iran, and fabulous champagne on Khrushchev's dime, an interruption becomes highly irritating and irregular. Said interruption should be a matter of life and death.”

Stark's crankiness set her immediately on edge. “Let me release an office memo letting everyone know champagne and caviar are more important than the safety of the world.” The receiver cracked when she plopped it down on the cradle more forcefully than necessary. Hanging up on Howard Stark could officially be crossed off her bucket list.

Worry that her reaction had been more rash than necessary and would endanger the safety of the planet filled two minutes of silence. In fact, she wondered if he would even bother calling back after her spot of rudeness until the phone finally rang.

“My aren't we irascible this evening. Might that have something to do with your faked orgasm of the twenty-third? Faked orgasms are pesky things, aren't they?”

So that was why he was irritated with her. How had he known? Why hadn't he said anything?

His beat of silence ended when he said, “When you are the Hugh Hefner of mechanical engineering, you can recognize a fake orgasm, and yours had all the subtlety of an Elvis Presley appearance. Having trouble below the belt?”

“Are we speaking on a secure line?

“I hardly think your sexual capabilities require the highest level of security.”

“Stark...” The warning in her voice should have been clear.

“Working your challenging schedule has made you dull and bossy.”

She tried once more to refocus his attention on more concerning matters. Why he was being exceptionally cantankerous would have to remain a mystery, as asking him straight out would have been completely ignored. “Are we speaking on a secure line?”

“Yes.”

“Another Flick Five drop was received. Alexander Shelepin may be involved in chemical or biological warfare. I'm declaring the mission critical priority and plan on making a raid on the facility as quickly as possible. Peggy and you seemed like the natural people to warn ahead of time.”

The sound of clinking glass came through the phone connection along with Peggy's muffled voice. It sounded like she was gathering empty bottles and dropping them into a metal waste basket. A muffled “is that Gwen” could be heard followed by “You've reached your weekly limit, Howard. No more until next week.” Howard did not like being told when his alcoholic consumption was over.

Crackling concluded when Peggy took the phone. “Gwen? Do you have something for us?”

She was forced to repeat her statement of a moment ago, but the exact wording was hard to remember through the growing worry about Howard's increase in drinking. Her sudden desire to care about her lovers was tested by not wanting to get involved in an emotional liaison with an addict. Drug addicts, alcoholics? They had a way of hurting those around them, however inadvertently that hurt was caused.

“The summit just concluded, so we'll be on our way back to Kiev in the morning. Don't do anything until we've arrived and had a chance to consult with you over the drop details. Do you plan on tipping off Flick Five prior to the mission launching again?”

“Seems the neighborly thing to do.” Gwen fingered the scrap of paper containing the handwritten note. 

“I suppose. We'll be there in a few hours.”

The call ended then, and a fresh cup of coffee was acquired from the office break room.

 

**Daily Notes: Howard's having a bad day. I don't envy Peggy when he gets into a pattern like this, but she has an easier time managing him than I do. She understands his inner workings better than I ever will. Also, Shelepin is up to something catastrophic; I can feel it in my bones. I may have misjudged Flick Five, though. That delicate penmanship is an odd trait for a man. Funny how even I have fallen prey to a patriarchal world view. Nine point nine times out of ten, I would be right to assume the rogue agent a man. Leninist Russia liberated women from serfdom and created opportunities for them in many male-dominated industries. Fast forward to Stalinist Russia where the country swung conservative again and revoked those earlier gains. What is it with patriarchy consistently devaluing women?**

**Note to self: Get drunk. Piss on Stalin's monument. Glue a massive dildo to his crotch. Watch the hysterics that follow.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwen receives a desperate call for help from Peggy.


	8. 10 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen receives a desperate call from Peggy Carter when Howard reaches the bottom of the barrel. Peggy also expresses her concern about Gwen's self-destructive habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a possibly upsetting situation concerning alcoholism. See end notes for a fuller description.

**10 October, 1961**

Nothing else in the world felt like the panic of receiving a call like the one she took early that morning. A paperclip from her desktop had become fused to her cheek after she'd passed out at her desk some time in the early morning hours, and the start caused by her phone screaming into the quiet didn't disturb it. She knocked it off while wiping at her face in the event drool had dried in place there.

“Allo?”

“I need you here at the Hotel Moscow. Bring a physician who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Hearing that kind of urgency in Peggy's voice? She was immediately alert and surged to her feet. “What happened?”

“It's Howard. I told him to stop, but he didn't listen. Why doesn't he ever listen?” Urgency was disrupted by a slight wobble in her words, indicating she was choking back the tears.

After reassuring Peggy she would be there soon, Gwen hanged up to contact the unit's on call physician to have Doctor Burke meet her at the hotel. Confirmation wasn't needed to realize what had happened. It wasn't the first time Howard had been on a bender since she'd known him. He'd been drinking heavily the night before. Didn't take a rocket scientist to form a conclusion.

Things were worse than envisioned when she arrived outside Stark's suite twenty minutes later with Doctor Burke at her side. Peggy was bleary of eye and stern of face while letting them in and showing them to the main bedroom. Stark was stretched sideways across the bed and appeared to have been shifted out of the puddle of vomit soaking into the bedspread. Perhaps the most frightening thing, though, was the slight bluish cast to his complexion.

Doctor Burke muttered a random curse under his breath and hurried forward to get started. “How long has he been unconscious? And what type and amount of alcohol?”

“Forty minutes. I don't know the exact amount, but he's been guzzling vodka and Islay whisky since yesterday afternoon before the meeting with Khrushchev.” Peggy shook her head and chewed on the end of her thumb. “I tried to make him stop.”

“This isn't your fault.” Seeing the other woman's distress made her nauseous, so it was as much for her own comfort as Peggy's when she wound an arm around Agent Carter's shoulders. “Short of rendering him unconscious, there is no stopping him when he decides to go on a bender.”

A swift shrug dislodged Gwen's arm. “Don't patronize me. Had I monitored him better, this wouldn't be happening. Had I checked on him sooner after he retired, I could have kept him awake.”

“What are you going to do? Tie him to a chair? Hold a gun to his head? Watch him twenty-four hours a day? Howard Stark is a grown man and shouldn't need constant babysitting to make sure he doesn't black out and suffocate in a puddle of his own vomit.”

A muscle in Peggy's jaw ticked.

“Don't look at me like that. Someone needs to say it instead of making excuses for him.”

“Agents,” Doctor Burke said sharply. 

Both women tightened their lips and turned to look at the doctor, but Gwen was the first to speak when she said, “What does he need?”

“Fluids to reverse the dehydration. Vitamins to balance his electrolytes. Help me straighten him, but keep him on his side to prevent choking on vomit if he has anything else to come up. If his breathing worsens, he'll need to be transported to a hospital for oxygen therapy.”

“His reputation,” Peggy reminded them. “He's the face of S.H.I.E.L.D. How much less will people trust him if nurses brag on the evening news about treating him for alcohol poisoning?”

“He's blacked out drunk!” The sound of her own shout produced a flinch, so she forced a calmer tone. “Howard has issues. But who amongst us doesn't? If he doesn't get help, then maybe he shouldn't be the face of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The other woman was tense again and glaring in an uncomfortable way. “That isn't your call to make, and your disloyalty is duly noted.”

“Disloyalty?” Her imminent tongue-lashing—Gwen had no intention of backing down just because the other woman's name was Peggy Carter—was interrupted by the doctor.

“Perhaps this conversation can be shelved until a later date. We have a patient to attend to.”

A final searing glance bored into Carter before she raked fingers through her hair and turned to help Doctor Burke reposition Howard in bed. Supporting his neck to keep his airways open became necessary when he stirred. He muttered a word or two and coughed to clear his throat. Spittle and droplets of vomit were exhaled onto her fingers tucked beneath his chin.

Sometime during the interminable process of Burke fighting to find a usable vein to start an IV drip, a terrible thought occurred. What if his bender had been a result of their earlier conversation? What if he'd gotten black out drunk as a result of her faking an orgasm? No matter how much he liked to pretend otherwise, his self-confidence was a fragile thing in a lot of areas. Could one faked orgasm have resulted in him being so doubtful of himself that he'd resorted to the bottle? Or was she, as he'd once accused her, giving her vagina too much power?

It was a long morning in House Stark, that was for sure. Once the doctor successfully started fluids, she retreated into the living area for a breath of air not tainted by the smell of stale alcohol and vomit and to start a pot of coffee. She was on her second cup by the time Carter joined her and decided they were on speaking terms again.

The other woman apologized for her harsh accusation and continued, “I let Howard get away with more than I should. It's only because he was all I had for the longest time. After Steve, I couldn't imagine letting anyone else in, but as a consequence of us working so closely together, we developed a bond. He was all I had, and he needed my protection against the world.”

“You can't protect him from himself, though. He will never get help nor change the behavior unless real consequences arise. Did he say why he was so upset?”

“Howard self-medicates. It's normal for him to have a few drinks before engaging in social functions to help dull the edge and get him through his awkwardness. He just didn't stop at a few this time.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't there to help.”

“What could you have done? What could anyone have done? He'd hidden alcohol on the jet. I didn't know his drinking problem was this extreme.”

“Now we know and can better address the issue.”

“Do you really want to help?”

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

“Your life is your own. Our place may not be to tell you how to live your life, but we can decide whether or not we want to be a part of your self-destruction. Overlooking your love of danger was easier in the beginning when Steve's loss had me trapped in a fog, but that fog is lifting.”

“Self-destructive tendencies?” She swirled the coffee in her cup, trying to keep an open mind.

“You risk too much for a cheap thrill, Agent Holcomb. An entire mission, and a top-priority one at that, was jeopardized to tip off a fact finder when your imagination went off on some yarn. Between shagging some random hostile—did you even know his name—and waiting to pull your chute until the last possible second, I have grave concerns about becoming emotionally invested in you anymore than I already am. If you won't fix yourself, why would I even begin to think you want to fix Howard or to allow you anywhere near him for fear your destructive pattern might wear off on him?”

“In point of fact, I did know his name.”

Peggy centered a dangerous look on her and appeared on the verge of punching her in the nose. “This isn't an official hearing regarding your capacity to continue with S.H.I.E.L.D, though by rights, I should enact a disciplinary hearing for risking Project Perun without informing us. But I do suggest you approach the conversation seriously. Our present relationship depends upon it.”

Being threatened wasn't normally an event worth noting; she was threatened every other Thursday, but having their relationship placed into jeopardy was the equivalent of being doused in a bucket of ice water. “Are you suggesting we take a break?”

“I am, at least until you come to a point where the thrill isn't as important as your life. With Howard entering a destructive phase, I cannot handle the both of you jumping into self-built bonfires and trying to go out in a blaze of glory. I care about you. I cannot watch you self-destruct.”

“So that's what that feels like.” But she refrained from pointing out how utterly unfair it seemed that Peggy was willing to stand by Howard while he drank himself under the ground but not by her. And because she absolutely could not be emotionally vulnerable in front of them, she pushed the accompanying emotions down into her belly. “Fine. We're on a break.”

Peggy seemed surprised.

“What?”

“I suppose I expected more of a reaction.”

Gwen leaned elbows on knees and bored an intense look into the other woman. “Considering you're the one who can flip a switch and decide to stop caring by taking a break from intimacies, I hardly think you're in a position to judge my internal dialogue by the expression on my face.” She surged to her feet. “And for the record, this passive-aggressive bullshit doesn't become you. Also, allow me to throw one word back at you from earlier. That word is 'disloyalty.'”

She didn't allow Peggy the opportunity to respond before retreating back into the bedroom to check on Howard. His color seemed better and his breathing easier, so Doctor Burke took the opportunity to step out for a cigarette and a cup of coffee, leaving her alone with her not-lover. Because they all knew what Peggy declared became the rule for the Devilish Duo.

Sitting with him allowed her some quiet time to gather her thoughts. The sting of Agent Carter retracting emotional availability was worse than she imagined. That separation, knowing she was once again alone in the world, brought unexpected and mixed emotions. 

On the one hand, she was tempted to shout with joy at no longer having people depending on her living through dangerous situations. The relief of not having anyone to answer to was palpable. On the other, it felt like spiders skittered beneath her skin from facing the reality that Peggy was Howard's and Howard was Peggy's. How could she, who had grown to womanhood manipulating, stealing, and prostituting to survive, have ever thought to relate to them in any meaningful way?

If Howard was made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails, and Peggy was made from sugar and spice and everything nice, then she was made of barbed wire and broken glass and everything crass.

Waiting around the hotel suite with that amount of tension charging the air meant it was one of the most uncomfortable days of her life, but she didn't intend on leaving until Stark roused and could be declared free from danger. That happened during the late evening hours. Gwen was standing in the doorway when his dark eyes finally opened blearily to take in the world.

Peggy, who was sitting at his bedside, immediately let him have it for the scare he'd given them, but he was quick to diffuse her anger with a few playful comments and a flick to the end of her nose. That was enough to drain the stress from the room like someone had pulled the plug on the bathwater.

Watching their affection like an outsider scraped over raw nerves, so she gathered her things and left the suite so the pair could enjoy the rest of their evening. The empty silence of her apartment was both a balm and an irritant. But it was mostly a balm. A muscle in her jaw ticked from clenching her teeth tightly, and she finally allowed the emotions to unfurl over a bottle of Stolichnaya.

A fist connected with the counter of her kitchen island so forcefully impact fractures splintered the surface. What sickened her the most was the sudden desire to pantomime the affection Peggy needed to continue the relationship. Pantomiming shouldn't be difficult.

The long swig of Stoli that slithered down her throat stopped that thought in its tracks, and she forced enough calm to shower and change. Her not-lover wouldn't receive the satisfaction as far as she was concerned. Peggy wanted emotional distance? That was what she would get, and it would be accompanied by a great big “fuck you too with a fist-sized dong of fury.”

She left her apartment to return to the office to get some work done.

 

**Daily Notes: Found out Howard has a serious alcohol problem. Sometimes, he is very much like a child who needs managing. Why can't I just wrap him in padding and protect him from his own demons? I would fight them tooth and nail for him if I could.**

**Also, Peggy broke my heart today.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an episode where Howard's alcoholism is discussed after he blacks out and nearly succumbs to blood alcohol poisoning.


	9. 11 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S.H.I.E.L.D. prepares for a raid on the Vault.

**11 October, 1961**

“You look like shit,” Howard announced the next morning at the office.

She registered the comment but didn't lift her glance from the map spread across her desk until she'd finished tracing an exit route in red ink, making note of several possible guard stations along said route. When she finished, she finally granted him eye contact. “S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't pay me to look nice.” Her comment was terse while taking note of Carter out in the main office talking with an underling.

“Peggy said you were at the hotel most of yesterday. Why didn't stay long enough to say hello and have dinner?” His breath smelled excessively of mint.

So he was going to pretend like nothing had happened, like he hadn't spent the better part of yesterday unconscious and struggling for life against alcohol poisoning. Totally wasn't her job to care anymore! “I saw that you'd woken and were alert and didn't want to interrupt your evening with Agent Carter. The important thing was that you were coherent.”

His fingertips rested against her desktop, and he leaned closer with a slight smirk. “For someone who was complaining recently about us being across the globe for five months, you're being awfully terse.”

Hadn't Carter mentioned they were taking a break from intimacies so they could cool their jets and stop caring about each other? At any rate, it was not something she wanted to get into at the office, so she moved to refocus his attention. “We've lost an entire day of work planning the raid on Operation Two. I have a great deal to get done in order to catch up.”

After collecting a folder from her files, she used it to intercept his face when it looked like he might lean closer and force affections. His puckered lips met paper instead. Even if they had still been sometimes-lovers, that kind of boldness at the office wasn't acceptable.

“Flick Five's information on Operation Two. It hasn't been backed up by empirical data yet, but I have a hunch on this one. If it's in any way connected to Operation One, we need to move on it quickly. He'll likely shorten his time table after our raid on the Hedge.”

Carter finally entered to join the conversation. “Flick Five was right the first time, but let's maintain our caution. I agree this is something that needs to be looked into, though. What makes you think biological warfare is involved?”

“Agent Carter,” she said by way of acknowledging the other woman.

Howard glanced back and forth between the two but remained quiet.

A photo of the markings was retrieved from the file folder and settled on the desk. “These are Cyrillic for 'Volos.' Much like Perun is considered an old Slavic storm god, Volos' domain is over disease. Makes sense and follows the train of Shelepin's logic, but there's no coincidence he's using Slavic gods. This is building towards something much larger than we thought.”

“Your hunches have been accurate thus far, so where are you in the planning phase?”

“Already have a reliable entrance and exit route mapped out and a team assembled. The Vault, where Operation Two is being prepped, is located in Volgograd, so successfully getting in will be much more challenging. At least we could count on the remoteness of the Hedge giving us an advantage to exploit. This time, they have all the advantages.”

“Challenging?” Carter scoffed. “Try nigh impossible.”

“Which is why we need Flick Five,” Howard interjected.

“No,” continued Carter. “This is too dangerous to risk assets on. You're discussing making a raid on a Soviet-controlled facility in the middle of one of the most industrial cities of the Soviet Union.”

“And if I'm right? If they are housing biological warfare inside?”

“It's impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible,” she fired back.

Color rushed into Carter's cheeks, and she moved nearer Gwen's personal space to reiterate her denial. “Not even if you told me the answer to world hunger was located inside. Your life is worth more.”

Her lips tightened. “You don't get to make that decision anymore, remember?”

Their hitherto forgotten male companion was forced to intervene by stepping in between the pair of bulls ready to charge one another to establish dominance. “Ladies! Agent Carter, allow me to remind you that Agent Holcomb has jurisdiction over Soviet matters. Agent Holcomb, allow me to remind you that one battle is not more important than the entirety of the war.” He concluded by retrieving his ever-present notebook to jot something down that had just occurred to him.

Easing her stance didn't mean she tore her gaze away from Carter or was capable of stopping the ticking of a clenched jaw again. “Contrary to popular belief, I know how to do my job. If someone would unclench long enough to at least entertain the notion, I would tell you what I have planned. However, if this is going to continue being a power play to establish the proverbial size of our cocks, then I'm due for lunch.”

Carter finally backed down and indicated the map with a wave of her hand. “Do tell us this brilliant strategy you've concocted.”

Gwen did, and Carter was forced to reluctantly agree.

 

**Daily Notes: Good Pope John sang the Gregorian chant in Alexandra Kollontai's massive thunder-cunt. Agent Carter will wind up driving me insane. Actually, Kollontai is my hero and championed the role of women in Soviet Russia, so I shouldn't be so irreverent. Who am I kidding? The world would end if I stopped my irreverence.**

**No denying the dangerousness of the mission, though. The lives of everyone who volunteers will be in very real danger. This is probably where most people would pray to Jesus. Maybe I should take up praying to Eros or Tu Er Shen? Don't think there's a female counterpart to the “rabbit deity.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The raid on the Vault goes down, and Gwen has another run-in with the Winter Soldier.


	10. 15 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission goes pear-shaped, but just when Gwen figures her number's up, they receive help from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic violence and dubious consent. Details in the end notes.

**15 October, 1961**

The instant her countdown reached one, small charges mounted to the Vault's service drop, where usable electricity entered the building, ignited and burned out the circuit. Power in the facility dropped, which meant they had a limited window to reach and critically disable the emergency generators. They needed the facility pitch black in order to move with some amount of freedom. But Team Absinthe would also be running critical distraction while Team Baijiu moved through the facility.

“Go for Team Captain Morgan,” she said into her comm device.

From her position on the higher rooftop of a skyscraper across the street, Gwen was able to maintain clear line of sight with the Vault and its immediate vicinity. That section of Volgograd had seen an explosion of industrial development and building projects, and the Vault was located inside a newly-constructed office building containing all the hallmarks of the industrialized Communist regime. Square construction using mass produced concrete blocks covered a steel framework, and the exterior was devoid of decorative elements. Gray, bleak, and serviceable were the norm.

Night vision on her sniperscope allowed her to watch their third team, who were dressed like a gang of rough hoodlums one might find prowling the streets at night looking for trouble, approach the Vault. A brief skirmish ensued as guards attempted to relocate the group farther from the main entrance, a conflict that quickly escalated when someone on Team Captain Morgan hurled a Molotov cocktail at the guards. That achieved the desired response.

Point guards stationed outside the building quickly converged to send the hooligans scattering in all directions. Roof guards moved position toward the front of the building to spot their lower brethren. That, more than anything, was the response Gwen was after.

Agent Baro fired a zip line between the two buildings. Said zip line attached itself to the building's air conditioning compressor. The noise of it hitting was timed perfectly with the ground team escalating violence that culminated in gunshots. Being strafed by the guards sent the team scattering, but they'd already served their purpose.

Gwen was first across. She unhooked herself on the Vault's rooftop, shifted into the shadows, and palmed a knife from her belt. The two guards headed back into their normal observation pattern. Guard one met an untimely end when she crept up behind him to clamp one hand over his mouth while the other drove her knife into his brain stem. The second very nearly got off a warning shot only to collapse to the gravel with a knife sticking out of his eye.

She shook the cable to signal the rest of the team to make the crossing. While they did so, she shouldered her rifle and positioned herself on the northwest corner to keep an eye on the ground guards. Agent Baro was quickly joined by Agent Vetrov, who attacked the industrial air conditioner to expose the main duct system which would provide a pathway into the building. 

As they were moving on a time table, she was less cautious than she otherwise may have been and just dove in ahead of her two companions. Climbing through a building's ducts like a rat in a maze wasn't as romantic as spy novels and films made it out to be. They were packed with dust and allergens, and slithering around inside with the gear necessary to run a mission wasn't in the least romantic.

Team Absinthe dropped from the vent shaft into the top floor and worked down to the elevator. Ambient lighting pouring inside from numerous windows meant they could see where they were going, but it wasn't bright enough to dispel the shadows necessary for covering their movements through the facility. Black tactical uniforms went a long way in keeping them hidden but didn't do jack when they rounded a corner and came face to face with a patrolling guard.

The guard was so startled upon seeing them he couldn't call a warning before Agent Baro ended the danger he posed. Julian surged forward and slipped a knife into the guard's throat. Said knife was jerked swiftly to either side to enlarge the wound. Once the enemy had collapsed, Vetrov helped his comrade drag the body into a nearby restroom. Both were grinning and giving silent high-fives when they returned, and they were quickly on the move again.

Gwen was on point when she pried open the elevator doors without breaking a sweat or straining. She grasped the cables and shimmied down until they reached the elevator that was stopped between the fourth and third floors. They entered the elevator through a maintenance hatch. Baro reached the doors while she was helping Vetrov find his footing to come down.

A soft grunt escaped Julian as he pried the doors open with some difficulty. The strain caused him to shake his hands out, likely to restore blood flow to his fingertips. He glanced toward her with an awkward smile and a shrug. 

“You're doing the next one, Muscles,” he whispered.

Grinning, she flexed one well-formed bicep, but her ability to open stiff elevator doors had less to do with the size of her arms and more to do with the density of her not-fully-human muscles.

The trio slipped out to disappear down the hallway. A stairwell gave them access to the next floor where they beat feet to the elevator shaft again. It was used to finish their descent into the basement.

Three guards greeted them in the basement. She snapped a KGB neck. Nothing was so rewarding as feeling the crunch of their bones, of knowing there was one less asshole in the world. Vetrov was nursing a bleeding forearm by the time Baro and he finished off the other two.

Unfortunately, that was where their luck deserted them. Dim lights flickered and finally flared to life as emergency generators came online, making their progress much more dangerous and prompting her to break radio silence. “Two minutes behind schedule. Repeat: Team Absinthe running two minutes behind schedule. Adjust accordingly, Team Baijiu.”

“Copy that. We're in position,” Carter said.

Julian leaned into her shoulder to whisper, “You get that camera ready, Agent Three, 'cause we're going to hoist the colors over the Vault on our way out. Someone has to preserve it for posterity.”

Gwen shook her head with a light snicker and elbowed Baro to get him off her.

Dimitry asked, “What colors are we hoisting?”

“Come on, Pal, we're raising the good old red, white, and blue. Why else did you wear your spangly boxers. Take those suckers off, and we'll run them up the flag pole as a lasting memory for the KGB.”

“Will you two knock it off? We're far from done here.”

She swung her rifle into position and jogged down the corridor. Two shots, the noise muffled by her suppressor, were fired when a pair of guards came rushing around the corner. A third shot from behind them sounded more like a canon in the narrow confines, prompting her to flinch and whip around toward their rear. The growing blood stain on Baro's stomach twisted her insides.

Lips tightening, she sighted and fired over the man's shoulder while he slid toward the ground with a hand covering the hole in his stomach. She emptied her clip and chamber, dropped the rifle, and charged them headlong. Vetrov covered her charge adequately enough that she dove into a forward somersault and reached the enemy with only one bullet finding its target in her pelvis. They were dead before they could shift from long range to hand to hand.

A palm covered her gunshot wound as she hurried back. Vetrov was already crouched beside their comrade and applying pressure to the wound.

“Take Dimitry and get out of here, Boss.” He was unable to take a full breath.

Her tone was nonchalant, flippant even, when she said, “The rulebook says we don't leave men behind. Agent Carter would blister our backsides if we left you here. I need you on your feet, Agent.”

“Can't, Boss. Bullet must have nicked my spine. I can't feel my legs.”

“Don't do this to us, Baro,” Vetrov said with a twinge of desperation. “All three of us are getting out of here. We'll be on the roof back at headquarters in the morning sipping cocktails and telling exaggerated stories of our exploits tonight.”

Baro chuckled. “Make sure you have a White Russian for me, yeah?” A stray tear trickled down his face. “Enough chit chat. You two have to go. You can't linger here. Boss, you know what to do.”

Vetrov looked to be on the point of panic but managed to calm himself to say, “It's been my privilege.”

“And mine. Now get the Hell out of here.” Julian glanced toward Gwen and nodded twice.

Her emotions were slammed behind a tight expression, and she pushed her knife into Baro's brain stem to finish him as quickly and painlessly as possible. It was what had to be done. They couldn't leave him behind and risk his torture and the spilling of sensitive information, and they couldn't carry him through hostile enemy territory. Killing him was the kindest of all options.

A moment of silence passed.

“Are you with me, Vetrov?” 

The man's jaw clenched so tightly his lips were practically colorless. Grasping Julian's cheeks, he kissed the man's forehead and then closed his eyes before responding, “I'm with you.”

Fury drove her back to her feet without a twinge of pain from the wound on her pelvis. She'd just committed a mercy killing deep in the heart of KGB country. Everyone who didn't want to be shot with extreme prejudice needed to stay the fuck out of her face until she revisited the trauma on those who'd caused this whole mess. To that end, a wad of gauze was retrieved from a pouch affixed to her belt. Said gauze was shoved down the front of her pants and pressed against her injury to soak up blood.

“Agent Holcomb...”

She was quick to cut Carter off and said, “Hold your position until further notice. Vetrov and I are on the move and will have you clear in a few more minutes.”

“Gwen...”

Definitely not going there right now. The very sound of her not-lover's voice was grating on the ear, so she interrupted again. “Fuck off for now, Carter. I need to concentrate.” No way was she acknowledging Baro's death while in the middle of a proverbial hornet's nest. Those emotions were shoved into a thick vault existing at the center of her brain and reserved for those feelings that couldn't be dealt with. The door was slammed shut before any ghosts could emerge. With more prejudice.

Several more enemy soldiers stood between them and the generator room, delaying Team Baijiu from heading into the lab proper to start gathering intelligence. In short, Dimitry and she were both bloody and pissed off by the time they arrived. What they found waiting for them was something out of a nightmare scenario. More than a dozen hostiles were inside working on the generators. There was also the possibility they'd been tipped off. That thought added fuel to the flames.

Considering the shape they were in, taking down a dozen hostiles without sustaining mortal injury was unlikely. No matter how good a shape Dimitry was in, he was still human with all a human's frailties. So Gwen experienced that one chink in her determined armor and had a split second to make up her mind about the mission's future.

“Fall back.” She dove out of their sight line and behind a stack of crates to lay down cover fire while Vetrov backed from the room.

“He's here,” Carter suddenly said into her earpiece. “Bloody Hell, it's really him. Team Absinthe, fall back immediately. We're scrubbing the mission. Get the bloody Hell out of there. The Winter Soldier is heading toward the roof to cut off our escape point.”

The news both excited her and turned her blood to ice. She fired off a couple of more rounds before throwing herself through the doorway. Her companion slapped a button to close the door and quickly laid out a few charges set on a motion spring release. When the doors opened, it would explode in their enemy's faces.

“Did you have personal visual confirmation? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Of course I'm bloody sure. There was a time when my word would have been good for you. Has that miraculously and suddenly changed?”

A few beats of silence passed before she responded while charging down the hallway behind Dimitry. “Get to the shadows and go into radio silence. Do not engage even if you think you have the upper hand. Believe me, if you've seen him, you do not have the upper hand.”

They weren't even halfway down the hall before the explosion triggered behind them with enough force both ended up sucking face with concrete when they were thrown forward. Ringing in her ears was ignored in favor of shoving back to her feet to take advantage of their momentary upper hand. She grabbed Dimitry's collar to pull him up. If they didn't make it out alive, then Baro had died in vain. He'd already died mostly in vain as it was.

Fighting was much heavier getting out than it had been getting in. KGB knew of their presence in the building and was hellbent on preventing their escape. They were out in force. The only way they were living through the rest of the night was to move and to keep moving. Getting bogged down would mean their death, so Gwen took point. She raced into the stairwell ahead of her companion, who was flagging and running on the last of his endurance, so it became important to clear the path for him.

She rounded a corner to mount a flight leading up to the fifth floor when it felt like her shoulder rammed into a brick wall. Pain punched her nervous system and a quick glance discovered a bloodstain blossoming there. A heated glance lifted toward the three men taking cover at the higher bend of the stairwell. All three were dug in. The only reason she still had a heartbeat was because she managed to retreat back down a few steps to get out of their range.

Droplets of sweat tickled down her temples.

“It's bad, isn't it? Haven't seen you break a sweat in a year,” Dimitry muttered through attempts at catching his breath.

She nodded in response. “Ammo?”

“One clip left. You?”

“Half a clip.”

“Location check for Team Absinthe,” Carter said.

“Caught between the fourth and fifth floor and pinned down by entrenched hostiles. You?”

“We extracted and are on street level heading away from the facility. The Winter Soldier gave us the slip while we were in pursuit.”

Seemed silly to use the last minutes of her life arguing with her not-lover about the definition of “stay where you are” and “do not engage.” At least Carter's urge to do things her own way meant they were outside the building and heading toward safety. The same couldn't be said for Gwen Holcomb.

“Stay where you are. We're heading back to your location to retrieve you.”

“Negative,” responded Gwen. “By this point, KGB have reinforcements en route and local authorities inbound. Do not return to this facility. Get yourselves to safety.”

She licked her lips to restore some moisture and was preparing for a final push toward the roof even if it meant enemy gunfire turned her into Swiss cheese. Whatever it took to get Dimitry clear of the building. Her charge was forestalled, though, by the sound of a scuffle above them. She risked easing around and was surprised to see two men in Vault uniforms mopping the floor with the hostiles pinning them down in their current position. If she looked thoroughly dubious when she glanced at Vetrov, it was only because she wondered if maybe she was going crazy.

_“This way. Flick Five sends regards,”_ said the larger of the two men in Russian.

Was it acceptable to include copious amounts of chocolate in a dead drop? Because she needed to do something to show her gratitude after this. Nodding, she grabbed her companion's collar and hurried up the stairs, allowing Flick Five's minions to stay one floor ahead of them so that by the time they arrived, the friendlies had already cleared the path.

The rest of the stairwell carrying them to the roof was clear of living hostiles. About half a dozen cooling bodies were left in the wake of their saviors, who were nowhere to be seen by the time they burst through the roof access door into the crisp air of predawn. Choppers in flight beat the air rhythmically and were approaching at a fast clip, so she raced across to the southeast corner where two thin cables were suspended from the parapets, Team Baijiu's escape route. Hooking her harness to the line, she bailed over the side and rappelled down to street level. Vetrov was still on her heels, but by that point, they didn't have time to look back. Security personnel and police were responding in force.

They got away by the skin of their teeth and found a pair of motorcycles tucked away in a dark alley, hidden from the main street by a dumpster that serviced the highrise into whose shadow they ran. She tugged on a leather bomber jacket from the saddlebags to cover her tactical uniform.

“Take Route One back to the safe house. I'll meet you there via Route Two.”

“You sure you're safe to drive? There's room for two on this beast, because...” He didn't finish what they were both thinking. Baro was supposed to have ridden behind Vetrov during their exit plan.

“I'm fine. Be safe, Agent Vetrov.”

He nodded once. “Be safe, Agent Holcomb.”

Vetrov had already taken off, the sound of his engine fading into the darkness, when she caught sight of shadows shifting and the telltale glint of moonlight against Yakov's metal arm. He disappeared down the dim streets. Seeing him sent tingles down her spine, tingles accompanied by an unhealthy dose of curiosity, because just what the Hell was he doing in the same general vicinity at the same time as her? It was almost like he was following her, which was something she couldn't risk. The Soviet Union didn't know S.H.I.E.L.D had a division in their back yard. Protecting their anonymity was paramount to their effectively continuing to work beneath Khrushchev's nose.

At least that was what she told herself upon caving to inner demons chanting for her to intercept him. She hooked her helmet over the handlebars, removed the microphone and earpiece of her comm device to leave them with the bike, and took off after him. Keeping pace was a challenge given her wounds. He was moving at speed and seemed unaware of her presence.

One thing was certain, though: Carter was going to give her an absolute tongue lashing when she made it back to the office. That knowledge increased her heart rate and quickened her breathing. And therein lay the dark undertones of her decision to follow the Winter Soldier, because it was also a great big “fuck you” to her not-lovers for having abandoned her. They'd left her after having incited the desire to care that made her vulnerable. One minute, they had wanted her affections. As soon as she had complied and had allowed herself to soften, they had yanked it away.

Gwen tracked him into an abandoned warehouse. _“What were you doing at the Vault tonight?”_ Her Russian was a little messier than normal given her state of exhaustion and blood loss.

He paused in the process of opening an old, rusted barrel to retrieve something, presumably from a dead drop. Straightening, he turned enough to allow her to see his face in profile, the bottom half covered by a mask. _“Of the two of us, who has greater cause to be on KGB property? Yours is a question I should be asking.”_

She smirked. _“Are you sure you aren't following me like a lost puppy who's latched to the nearest source of affection? After the last time we met, I wouldn't be surprised.”_

A soft, dry chuckle was forthcoming. _“I fucked you. I neither proposed marriage nor agreed to be concerned about your welfare. We must think highly of ourselves to assume otherwise.”_

_“Of course. What was I thinking? It would be hard for someone with a tin heart to have any lasting concern about another person. Good thing you didn't provide an outstanding enough first showing to warrant a second. I just thought your presence at the Vault unusual. You don't strike me as lowly enough to be put on guard duty.”_

_“Against S.H.I.E.L.D operatives who already successfully raided a KGB facility? You are making quite the name for yourself as a thorn in Karpov's side.”_

_“And yet here I stand and there you stand, and you're doing nothing to take me in to your masters.”_

The word “masters” did something funny to his eyes. They narrowed and became pinched for no more than a couple of heartbeats before he was moving in her direction. Since she was not one to back down, couldn't afford to back down and become the more submissive party in their odd relationship, he grabbed her upper arm and hauled her closer.

_“Don't ever use that word again.”_

_“What? Masters?”_ There was nothing subtle about the emphasis placed on the word.

He exploded into motion and shoved her against an old conveyor machine that was flaking with rust and had seen many better days. She'd certainly struck a nerve that ran deep, as he pursued and trapped her between his body and the conveyor. _“Impertinent cunt.”_

_“What? Are you going to hit me? Or did your masters order you to turn me over to them?”_ A dark thrill sparked through her psyche. It was like she could hear herself speaking but had no control over what was coming out of her mouth, like depravity had taken over in order to achieve enough fuel to ignite into a conflagration.

Now he was really angry. She could tell by the sudden coldness of his eyes, that and the thumb pressing into the gunshot wound on her shoulder, grinding there and shooting splinters of agony throughout her body. He wasn't just angry, though. Something more intense lurked behind the long fringe that had fallen into his eyes.

Hell, she didn't know if he moved first or if she did. Probably her, as she yanked his mask away in order to take possession of his mouth. The adrenaline singing through her veins sent a message directly to her loins to start prepping for an epic fucking, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was why she'd followed him in the first place, because she needed sex to unwind after killing Ba— after a hard night.

What played out inside the factory was no exploratory outing to learn each others likes and dislikes. It all boiled down to bodies demanding the release and satisfaction that could only come from angry, hate-fueled sex with someone they both respected and could stop caring about as soon as orgasm was achieved. There was absolutely no danger of becoming emotionally involved, and that made fucking him safe. Funny that, how she was safer screwing a man she would one day kill or be killed by than Carter and Howard. And of course there was that tiny devil on her shoulder that really wanted to piss off Agent Carter by doing something Carter had disapproved of the first time.

Gwen bit the side of his throat none too gently, drawing a hiss of complaint from him while he unfastened her belt. Said belt was dropped unceremoniously on the ground in favor of concentrating on the fastening of her pants. Once they were open, he shoved them down off her hips. That his fingers dragged over the gunshot on her pelvis and caused a flare of intense pain wasn't at all a deterrent from opening his belt and pants. Her hand slipped inside to massage the head of his cock.

Jaw tensed when he looked down and found blood on his own fingertips, and he glanced between his digits and her pelvis. A minor softening of his features occurred.

_“Ignore it and fuck me.”_

_“Your injuries.”_

_“For fuck's sake, don't pussy out on me now.”_ The level of desperation in those words was startling, and it wasn't desperation to come. She wasn't so addicted to orgasm that she would give him grief for not satisfying her. No, it went much deeper and more pathological than that.

_“I'm not in the habit of screwing women who are bleeding out on top of a rusted conveyor.”_ He started to step back and lift his hands away from her.

Panic rocketed toward her throat, so she said the first thing that would get a reaction out of him and perhaps pull him back into the moment. _“Fine. Run off to your masters. I hadn't realized they'd taken your balls along with your dignity.”_

Proverbial gears screeched to a halt and froze him mid-step. He was furious. He was beyond furious judging by the lines of his body. She'd never seen him so angry before, and when movement finally returned, he spun her around and forced her down onto the conveyor while jerking her pants down around her thighs to expose her sex to the cool night air.

_“Is this what you need?”_

A warbling sound escaped when he attained penetration. He fucked her hard and relentlessly, one hand snaking around her waist to press organic fingertips against the wound on her pelvis. They dug into her there, unloosing coils of agony. Metal fingers lodged against her clit, so that every strong pump dug her most sensitive flesh onto his fingers.

“Fuck yes. Please, Yakov.” She was so removed from reality that words slipped back into her native language, and she shoved herself back onto him forcefully, violently.

It took less time for her loins to unwind than she'd ever experienced. She came bright and explosively and couldn't muffle the shout accompanying her climax. The tears wetting her cheeks didn't register at first. A hand dropped to cover his organic hand, and she helped him press his fingers into the hole in her flesh to allow the pain to draw out her orgasm longer. The release was so intense her legs were quaking in response to a second climax that came on the heels of the first.

Neither of them lasted much longer than that. Another half dozen thrusts, and he emptied himself into her with an uncontrolled whimper. His weight settled against her back and pressed her tighter against the conveyor while their hearts thundered out of control. His softening flesh slipped from her vagina. Feeling the sticky mixture of their come dribbling down the inside of her thighs was electric.

Cooing and cuddling wasn't an option for either, so as soon as their hearts calmed and muscles relaxed enough, they separated and righted their own clothing. He was the one who ended up reinstating contact by grabbing hold of her chin to force eye contact, fingers punishing against her flesh.

_“If you ever ask that of me or manipulate me into doing that again, I will kill you. I'll give you what you need tonight but never again. And for fuck's sake, get your wounds patched up by a licensed physician and not some back alley charlatan.”_

She watched him storm away. The knot he'd managed to loosen in her body quickly solidified like wax that had melted and was rapidly cooling, prompting a frustrated sob and brief shower of tears. She didn't realize she was crying until scrubbing the heel of a palm across her cheeks. There was something so very sick inside her. Acknowledging that dark, twisted part of her psyche was dangerous territory, so she shoved it down as deep as it would go.

Sirens and the sounds of men communicating back and forth was what ultimately got her into motion again after snatching up the face mask he'd left behind. She hurried from the warehouse by a side entrance and returned to where the bike was parked to be on her way. At least she could guarantee that Carter and Stark wouldn't take her back. Not after this, and she would likely be stripped of her status after the disaster at the Vault. Relief started melting the ball of wax stuck in her chest again.

 

**Daily Notes: Tonight, I impacted solidly against the bottom of a deep-fucking-barrel. Hurt like Hell, too. Am eighty percent sure Carter will terminate my contract with S.H.I.E.L.D after this. Was so desperate to focus on something other than emotions that I put good people in danger. Three men died as a result of my stubbornness. Just wondering if I should resign first or be terminated.**

**Why did TWS reference Karpov and the KGB? Karpov helped build the organization, but he isn't listed as one of the highest officers. Also, I think... Did I hurt him tonight? I didn't mean to hurt him? Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agent Baro is critically wounded, forcing Gwen to commit an on-site mercy killing. Once she escapes, she goads the Winter Soldier into fucking her when he is initially reluctant because of her injuries.
> 
> Next Chapter: Gwen faces the fall-out from the Vault while the Winter Soldier reports to Aleksander Lukin.


	11. 16 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aleksander Lukin attempts to discipline the Winter Soldier. Meanwhile, Gwen finally admits to her encounters with the Winter Soldier to Peggy.

**16 October, 1961**

Aleksander Lukin reclined in an armchair inside the apartment the asset had rented for the duration of their mission in Volgograd. The air was thick with smoke. A mound of cigarette butts piled precariously in the center of the ashtray were threatened by shifting air currents when Yakov finally entered. First thing noted was the missing face mask. The asset had been wearing his mask and glasses when he'd left earlier that afternoon.

“You're late,” Aleksander said in a voice rough from cigarette smoke and cheap vodka.

Tension snapped the asset tight. A focused gaze searched the darkness before drilling into his position.

Watching a man go from unaware to precision focused in the blink of an eye sent an electric chill zipping up Aleksander's spine, and he allowed himself to marvel, not for the first time, at the other man's reaction time. If he could react that quickly, surely Karpov would love him again.

The asset's frame loosened. He strode across to the small kitchenette and dropped his satchel on the table. “Mission parameters didn't indicate my time was being monitored down to the last second. Had I been informed, my lateness would not have transpired. There was unforeseen trouble at the Vault.”

“Your mission goal?”

“Preserved and completed despite your bad intelligence getting the location of the information wrong.” A wave of his hand indicated the satchel.

He sat forward to rest elbows against knees. After another swig of vodka, he continued, “Be careful, Friend. Such impertinence could draw unwanted attention. Karpov is already monitoring the Winter Soldier project. If he isn't satisfied by the thoroughness of your compliance, there will be consequences. I urge you not to discover said consequences.”

A beat of silence passed before Yakov responded, “Your threats are unneeded. My cooperation is his to command, my service his to direct.” Dismissing Aleksander, he stripped off his gloves.

“Is that blood?” If his tone was sharper with concern than intended, he could only hope Yakov fatigued enough to overlook the implication that panic was at the root cause of his sharpness.

The man's thumb smeared the dampness around absently. “Not mine.”

“Whose?”

The asset failed to respond.

Curiosity heightened, he funneled more authority to his tone. “Whose blood is it, Soldier?”

Hesitance radiated from the asset in completely non-subtle waves, and when he finally responded to indicate the blood belonged to a KGB asset standing between him and the information he'd been sent to collect, Aleksander knew damn well he was lying. He was furious that Yakov could lie to him.

He grabbed a fistful of dark hair that had haunted his disturbed dreams for years. Fingers dug into the other man's scalp to pull Yakov's head sharply to the side and expose the long column of a throat roped with muscle and sinew. At least the asset's coding to not strike someone in an authority position held firm, as the grip was tolerated without prompting a violent response.

“Do not lie to me.”

“I'm not.” Yakov's tone was more placating that time, but it didn't change the fact he'd become bold enough to lie to one of his handlers.

“Does your compliance require another trip to Doctor Rodchenko's machine?”

Deep dread caused the asset to shiver and drop his gaze into something much closer to submission, and he admitted, “I had contact with a woman before returning.”

Intense jealousy forestalled him from making a connection between the blood and Yakov meeting a woman. All he comprehended was that the asset had been with a woman in an unauthorized capacity, and that turned into the assumption sex had been involved. James had been with a woman. His chest tightened, and he twisted the rope of hair around his fist until the other man released a plaintive sound.

“Without prior authorization from one of your handlers? Conjugal visits are strictly regulated for those who have earned the right to a reprieve. You have not earned that right. You have no rights or desires. How can we trust you to comply when you cannot follow orders?”

“My apologizes, Sir.”

“Can you comply?” he demanded.

Another twist of his hair provided Yakov the incentive to speak while refusing eye contact. “Yes.”

The tightness of Lukin's chest wasn't assuaged by the man's submission. On the contrary, Aleksander couldn't banish the images pulsing through his brain of James bending some woman over a table, of James taking comfort from the presence of another human being. All his recent frustrations solidified into one wild desire to prove that someone was still under his control.

“Prove it.” His grip relinquished the clump of hair.

A thrill of anticipation lodged his breath midway toward exhale when the asset reacted without hesitation by turning and dropping to one knee. He'd never gotten hard so fast in his seventeen years than he did while watching nimble fingers—the fine motor skills of those cybernetic fingers were incredible—open his belt and unfasten his pants. His cock twitched.

Adrenaline surged through his veins and brought rasping laughter to his throat while watching that head of dark hair even with his groin, close enough he could sink fingers into it and pound himself into James' mouth. He owned Barnes. One snap of his fingers, one tiny command, and Barnes would have been willing to drop trousers and take cock in ass.

But did he really own him? Controlling a man who had been brainwashed to take orders was vastly different from owning a man's emotions and loyalty. How much sweeter would it be if James, in complete control of his own thoughts and feelings, chose to take a knee and suck him to fulfillment? Lips trembled uncontrollably for a few seconds while he felt the moment slipping from his fingers.

“Stop.”

Yakov stopped and removed the head of Aleksander's penis from his mouth.

Eyes squeezed tightly closed while shudders of disappointment and fury tensed his body. He shoved the other man's dark head away from his groin, fastened his own pants, and stormed back to his earlier perch for another long guzzle of vodka. No wonder he'd fallen out of favor with Karpov. He couldn't even discipline the asset appropriately without caving to softer emotions.

“May I ask a question, Sir?”

A cough resulted from the burn of vodka down his esophagus. “What?”

“Why are your ribs bruised? Do I have a new mark?”

Aleksander lowered a hand to his ribs and stared into the clear liquid filling his cup. “No new mark.”

***

A physician was digging around in her shoulder with a pair of surgical-grade tweezers to remove the bullet lodged there when Carter found her. Local anesthesia prevented her from suffering the pain of stainless steel rooting in flesh, and that was probably a good thing given her tendency to come bucketfuls whenever pain entered the equation. Didn't need to leave a puddle in the man's chair. She would never be invited back to the safe house.

Oh yeah, her boss was standing there glaring at her. Gwen lit a cigarette and asked, “What?”

“You turned your comm off.”

“My aren't we observant this morning.” She paused then to take a drag and chase it with a swig of vodka. Said swig caused the doctor to jab her a little more forcefully than was necessary, so she jerked an annoyed glance up toward him.

“The more alcohol you consume during this process, the more bandages I will go through.”

Agent Carter made a disgusted sound. The fury evident in her expression would have frightened the most stalwart of interns when Carter jerked the bottle from her hand. It went sailing across the room and careened against a block wall. By the time it reached the ground, the bottle was cracked and spilling its contents all over.

“I was drinking that!”

“You turned your comm off, Agent Holcomb. After you barely made it out of a KGB facility on a night where we lost three good agents, one of whom you had to put down yourself as a mercy killing. Agent Vetrov arrived at this facility a full hour before you did.”

“I took a longer route back to throw local authorities off my scent.”

“And that required you turning off communications? We thought you were dead.” The last sentence was ground out in a manner that made it clear Carter didn't appreciate the antics. In the least.

Gwen hissed when the doctor finally pulled the bullet from her shoulder. The clang of lead hitting a metal basin full of isopropyl alcohol gave her a start. Watching blood cloud the substance was strangely hypnotic, though.

“So your response is to sit and stare into a basin of alcohol. What were we thinking when we promoted you to head the entire Slavic division? You clearly aren't ready for the responsibility.”

“You're right,” she said bluntly. “Three people died tonight because I allowed emotion to cloud my judgment. That's unforgivable. My resignation will be on your desk by tomorrow evening, and if you choose to take further sanctions against my contract, I won't fight your decision. What happened tonight is fully on me. Not on the people who volunteered to go with me.” Given the doctor's presence, she couldn't go into detail about her incessant need to do something life-threatening in an effort to get revenge on Carter for having broken off their relationship.

Agent Carter sighed heavily and dropped onto a nearby stool. “It was as much my fault as yours. Being the senior officer, I should never have sanctioned the mission. I knew our information wasn't complete enough to risk lives. This is now about what we can learn in order to do better going forward rather than who should be blamed.”

“I should have protected them,” Gwen whispered. “We can't even do the decent thing by burying Agent Baro. There won't be a tombstone for his friends to mourn over.”

Carter grasped her good shoulder in a show of solidarity.

Silence stretched between them, then, while the doctor sealed her shoulder wound with a few stitches. Antibiotic ointment was smeared there before a bandage was taped into place. That prompted Gwen to drop trousers and lean back on the examination table to allow his access to her pelvic wound. 

Said silence wasn't broken until Carter was standing beside her and brushing the pad of a thumb across what appeared to be the beginning stages of psoriasis at Gwen's hairline. “Your skin is inflamed and flaking. You haven't been taking your medication regularly, have you?”

Mild discomfort accompanied the contact, and she shook her head. “Forgot my weekly dose. Between that and the action tonight, my body has gone through the serum faster than expected.”

“Where's your case?”

She jerked her chin toward the backpack sitting on a nearby chair. “In my overnight things.” She'd planned to stay the night at the safe house to give the heat a chance to settle in Volgograd before even trying to make it back to Kiev.

Carter retrieved her things and rooted around to produce a black case filled with five small vials. Each vial contained a chemical compound Howard had manufactured to help control her symptoms. Carter opened a new syringe to draw up the contents. “You've been requiring more doses lately, haven't you?”

“It seems less effective then it did a month ago.” Gwen already had the tourniquet around her arm to encourage a vein to the surface by the time the syringe was offered, so she accepted. The sharp sting of a needle hitting her vein was almost welcome at that point. She pushed the plunger and felt a burning sensation as serum flooded her system. Relief wouldn't come immediately, but it would come.

“Then we should have Howard reassess the formula. Surely he can make a stronger batch.”

Concern pinching the other woman's brow made Gwen feel even worse about the night's exploits. Clearly, she'd purposefully sabotaged her career and the only two friendships she had in the world. Because... Hell, she didn't know why.

Another moment of silence passed before Carter said, “The mission wasn't a total failure at least. My team pulled some intelligence from the facility. Howard is already back at headquarters perusing it. We're to join him there tomorrow morning after we've had a chance to rest.”

“Who needs rest when the KGB is up to something awful? I'll rest when I'm dead.”

The careless statement caused tension to flood back into Agent Carter's posture. “Sometimes you are the most thoughtless, cruel, unfeeling person I've ever met.”

More panic made taking a full breath difficult. She surged to her feet despite the doctor's protest when Carter moved away and grabbed the other woman's shoulder. “I didn't mean— I don't— Don't—” Her inability to complete a meaningful sentence was so frustrating tears pricked her eyes. A whispered “don't go” finally forced its way past her numb tongue.

“Doctor, would you step outside for a minute while Agent Holcomb and I have a private word?”

The physician threw up his hands in exasperated resignation and muttered something that resembled a besmirching of their ability to be good patients. Something along the lines of “worst patients in the history of patienting” and “impatient patients who couldn't patient.” But he stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him to give them privacy.

Gwen was taken aback when Peggy cupped her face and laid a heated one on her, their mouths and tongues fusing in the basic need to know the other was alive and well enough to kiss until the room heated around them by several degrees. Her fingers mussed her sometimes-lover's barrel curls. But it was ruined the second guilt broke her heart like a fat tick bursting under a dropped brick. She kissed the other woman once more before separating.

“I've done something awful,” she whispered.

“What could you have possibly done that's so terrible?” Peggy's forehead settled against hers.

“I was late returning because I went after the Winter Soldier. He was in my sector when I was getting ready to leave on our extraction vehicles, so following him seemed the natural thing to do.”

“All right. Not something I would have advocated you doing, but given how important it is for us to achieve intelligence on him and take him out of the equation, I hardly think it's seriously awful.”

Her head dropped until her chin was nearly touching her chest. Getting the words out proved difficult, and every one of her senses narrowed into tunnel vision. At the end of said proverbial tunnel existed a great big, flashing, neon sign that read “LIE!” In offensive pink letters. Lie, and Peggy would never find out. Lie, and there seemed a chance of getting back into the good graces of her sometimes-lovers. Lie, and they could go on the way they presently were and maybe rebuild their previous connection. But wasn't it her self-destructive behavior that had strained their relationship in the first place? If she lied now, she may as well fully separate from Peggy and Howard.

“Gwen, you can tell me anything.”

Jaw set with a determined jut, she finally pinned the other woman with a guilt-fueled glance. “I tracked him to one of his dead drops and goaded him into fucking me. He didn't want to when he realized I'd been shot repeatedly. I think... I think I sexually assaulted him. Also, when you first returned to Kiev and saw me bruised and beat to Hell and back? That was the Winter Soldier.”

 

**Daily Notes: What is wrong with me? Why do I consistently make the worst decisions? Beginning to think it would be best for Howard and Peggy if they just didn't come around me at all. But can we go back to a purely professional relationship? This is why fraternizing is so damned destructive.**

**Did I rape Yakov?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Flick Five comes through in a massive way.


	12. 17 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intel obtained by Flick Five leads S.H.I.E.L.D. to make a sobering conclusion about the enemy's end game.

**17 October, 1961**

“Could I invent a chemical cocktail called 'Act Right Juice,' the two of you would be first on the list for human trials,” Howard said while gazing intently into a microscope. When no response was forthcoming from either woman, he continued, “Either talk or get out. Those are your only two options. I will not have this sullen childishness infect my lab samples.”

Peggy broke first. “Have you gotten anywhere with regards to deciphering the intelligence?”

“What intelligence?”

“From our most recent mission,” she clarified.

“Which one was that?”

Exasperated, Carter pulled the microscope out of his reach. “Stop being deliberately frustrating.”

Gwen silently noted the wariness radiating from Mister Stark when he finally made eye contact. Living in his brain, processing minute details, being unable to stop the computations that built his world view had to be exhausting. But he finally focused sufficiently.

Reaching over for the stack of information, he dropped the thick volume in front of Peggy. His gaze traveled back and forth between the two again. “Not much useful information on Operation Two. Mostly, it's schematics of the wall surrounding West Berlin.”

The information peaked her interest, and Gwen leaned closer to thumb through the blue prints. “How does the Berlin wall relate to Operation Two? Walter Ulbricht, the East German president, is only a figurehead, of course. He carries out Nikita Khrushchev's orders unfailingly, but I had presumed Operation Two was a KGB subplot completely unrelated to Khrushchev's control.”

“I would suggest a coincidence, but we've all lived long enough to understand coincidences are rarely what they seem. Khrushchev wants total control of communist Germany. The only way to do that is to prevent skilled professionals from fleeing into West Berlin and emigrating out of the country. If he could eradicate the allied presence, he absolutely would.”

“It's definitely more than a coincidence; I can feel it in my bones.”

“The feeling in your bones is neither scientific nor factual, Agent Holcomb,” Howard quipped.

Normally, his acerbic comments went in one ear, rattled around in the apparently empty space between her ears, and came out the other. Today, however, hearing about her implied stupidity touched a nerve still raw from their beating at the hands of the KGB. “Yes, Howard. I'm aware you think I'm stupid, ineffectual, and hardly worth your time and attention. How bloody sorry you must be to find yourself in the presence of the world's greatest dunderhead. My only benefit is that I have a passably pretty face and am willing to let you stick your John Thomas in me.”

“And not even that now that you're faking orgasms.”

She saw red and couldn't hear Peggy jumping to her defense over the sound of blood rushing into her ears and the sudden pounding of her heart. Punching him in the face seemed an excellent idea up until the point Peggy insinuated herself between them, an action that provided her enough of a stop-gap to reconsider before actually slugging him.

“Howard, microscope. Gwen, coffee. Now.” Agent Carter's voice was coated with authority.

Anger and the tiniest pang of hurt couldn't prevent her from responding to that tone of voice. But if a look could kill, she would be holding a SMAW directly to his forehead. A beat of silence passed before she turned to leave the lab in the basement level of S.H.I.E.L.D: Kiev to grab some coffee. She carefully considered bringing Colossal Asshole a cup as well. Laced with high powered laxatives.

A delivery package waited on her desk when she stopped by for her mug. Someone had replaced her usual plain mug with one that had “World's #1 Boss” printed across it. She had the package and two cups of coffee upon returning to the lab. One mug was handed to Peggy, and she dropped the package on the table near Howard's work space. That she didn't slam his head into the table on sight was proof the brief walk had given her a moment to cool off.

“What?” Howard began, “none for me?”

“We ran out of decaf last week, and my secretary forgot to pick some up,” she grumbled back.

“That's okay. I don't take de—”

“You do now,” she interrupted.

“Could you two please act like adults and leave the childishness to the five-year-olds? Yes? Fantastic.” Peggy then proceeded to shove her own cup into his hand, effectively nullifying the attempt at revenge.

She was still sulking over him getting his way when she tore into the package from her desk and upended the contents. A bunch of file folders had been stuffed inside. Some were labeled “Operation Two.” Others contained that odd serpent emblem like some of the files from the Hedge, prompting her to glance at the mailing label. Flick Five's delicate script had addressed the package.

“What do you have there?” Peggy asked.

“A package from Flick Five.” The more she sorted through the contents, the faster and more frenetic her motions became. Butterflies flitted around somewhere beneath her sternum as she quickly sorted the folders into two different piles: those labeled “Operation Two,” and those containing the serpent emblem. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. Flick Five had just saved their arses.

“Love letters from your favorite double-agent?” Howard asked with tint of a snicker to his comment.

An act of supreme will prevented a brawl in the middle of the building's lab space. “What the Hell is your problem?” she demanded. “Would you like to come out and say it, or would you prefer to engage in more of your passive-aggressive bullshit?”

She could see Peggy throwing her hands in the air out of the corner of her peripheral vision.

“Since you brought it up...” He dragged in a breath to signal an incoming tirade. “Sleeping with the enemy is something I can tolerate; my sexuality isn't exactly normal. But hurting Peggy is an offense worthy of the highest ridicule.”

The conflicting emotions arising from his comment left her unsettled and on unsure footing. Firstly, she felt terrible for having hurt Peggy. Secondly, Carter had gone behind her back and told Howard about the incidents. The result was that she didn't know whether to wind her ass or scratch her watch.

Self-defense mechanisms came online that insisted she lie and bullshit her way through it, and it was a sudden revelation upon realizing the more she denied and deflected, the more their relationship would degenerate. Lying and bullshitting hadn't miraculously made her better thus far. Maybe it was time to try the opposite approach?

A long breath escaped before she slumped and said, “There's something deeply wrong with me. I ruin any relationship I'm part of, so it would be beneficial to both of you if you insulated yourself from caring about me. I will bring you nothing but heartache.”

“I think perhaps you're right,” Howard returned.

“Howard. Gwen.” Peggy settled a hand on each of them. “We're all exhausted and stressed from tackling this KGB dilemma. No one is making any firm decisions until we've had a chance to really process what's going on. The truth of the matter is that we already care about you. There is no going back to the way things were before we introduced sex to the dynamic.”

“Then what? Are you suggesting we stop working together?”

“Of course not. I'm suggesting we calm the situation and concentrate our efforts on figuring this problem out. Once we're in a position to really look at our relationship, we'll reassess what's happening here. But let's not pretend that certain bonds haven't been formed. Howard, do you agree?”

The other man didn't look like he was going to respond at first given that he was so busy returning her SMAW volley from earlier. Finally, his shoulders sagged, and he nodded. “I agree.”

“Gwen, do you agree?”

“Yes.”

“Now let's look at this information from Flick Five and stop Shelepin from fulfilling whatever it is he's been working toward. S.H.I.E.L.D is the only one in any position to stop him.”

The next several hours were spent trying to fall into their normal rhythm while analyzing information together. Each brought a unique perspective to the mix and allowed them to anticipate their functions in the think tank. Howard inferred nuances and patterns. Peggy focused on motivating factors and statistics. Gwen determined countermeasures and inferred possible tactics.

Given the upheaval in their relationship, though, they were having a difficult time engaging in the collective S.H.I.E.L.D grunts had come to refer to as “The Evil Triumvirate.” Everything felt awkward. Their dance became clumsy. The process dragged into an interminable torture session where nails on chalkboards and the consumption of ground glass would have felt more satisfying.

Their breakthrough came at around three in the morning. He was upending another round of used coffee grinds from his bunsen burner coffee maker in order to make a fresh pot, and Peggy was in the process of clearing junk food wrappers from their work space when she finally noticed something she hadn't the previous thirty times she'd looked over the information.

“Bleeding elephant bollocks smeared in Queen Victoria's pudding. Listen to this bit of scripture from the Primary Chronicle. 'When Perun brings eternal winter to the bear and the ten children of Volos consume the offerings to spread fear through the masses, so shall rise the serpent god, Wotan. Fear of the great deity will consume the world in darkness.'”

Howard said around the lip of his coffee mug, “I didn't take Alexander Shelepin as a closet religious nut. Why is he suddenly interested in old Slavic religions?”

She gathered a map found amidst the intelligence from Flick Five. “How many red marks do you count on this map of West Berlin?”

“Ten,” responded Peggy. “But I don't follow. What does an old prophetic scripture have to do with anything? Except that it proves Shelepin is completely barmy and has devolved into superstition.”

“The weather machine was called Perun, right? What do you do with a weather machine?”

“Create eternal winter,” the other woman answered, her voice more excited as it started dawning.

“And the bear emblem was bequeathed to Berlin by an early ruler known as Albert the Bear, so they're planning on unleashing eternal winter in the city to fulfill the first part of the scripture.”

He stopped to jot down a few notes, the slight tremble in his hands easing as he did so. “The ten red marks are the symbols of Volos' ten children, who will consume the offerings. Because Volos is a deity concerned with disease, we can assume that is where the chemical warfare comes into play.”

“He's planted ten chemical bombs in West Berlin,” Peggy exclaimed.

“And everyone trapped inside, cut off from fleeing into East Germany, will be at risk. He's fenced them in like a herd of cattle to be slaughtered in order to herald the arrival of Wotan.”

Another phrase was jotted down in Notebook, and he settled a glance on Gwen. “Congratulations, Agent Holcomb. You win the Not Stupid Award for today. But of what is he heralding the arrival? Wotan is just another spelling for Odin, isn't it? Last I checked, Odin isn't signified by a serpent.”

“A lot of archaeologists don't differentiate between the two, but there is evidence that Wodan equates with Odin but Wotan refers to an altogether different deity closely related to Odin.”

“Allow me to sum up where we presently stand. Shelepin is going to murder the inhabitants of West Berlin through chemical warfare, spreading sickness and disease throughout the population, in order to gain access to some ancient piece of weaponry associated with a serpent. And everyone wonders why I am paranoid enough to agree to human trials of an unknown chemical compound resulting in super soldiers. If Hydra were still active, they would be in this balls deep.”

Gwen, meanwhile, was just proud to have received the Not Stupid Award for a change. 

 

**Daily Notes: I'm concerned about Shelepin's end game. We don't need the distraction of our relationship drama on top of what we're dealing with in the KGB. Everything else can wait until things have calmed again. But I loved the look on Howard's face when he finally had to admit I'm not stupid.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The operation gets underway.


	13. 21 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission comes to a head.
> 
> This chapter is tagged for graphic depictions of violence.

**21 October, 1961**

Gwen handed out packets of information and paperwork to the ten volunteers waiting aboard the transport jet circling West Berlin. Air traffic control held them up from landing to allow skies to clear and a runway to open. The skies above the city were clogged, as it was the only safe way into West Berlin. Numerous checkpoints for ground traffic were closed since the Soviets weren't allowing anyone from East Germany into the city. West Berliners were supposed to have free access to East Berlin, but “supposed to have” often fell by the wayside depending on what Khrushchev had for breakfast. Hungarians were the only ones granted free access to and from the city at present.

“Inside your information packets,” she began, “you'll find a map of West Berlin containing the location of ten alleged chemical bombs. The two bombs your team has been set to diffuse are marked with green. Unless you are directly instructed by another team to enter their zone, do not approach other targets. We don't need friendly fire blasting up the neighborhood.

“Secondly, your packet also contains travel papers. Travel between the allied occupied territories of West Berlin isn't limited, but should you be stopped by British, French, or American personnel, those papers will list your reason for being in the city and give you free access to all three sectors. Do remember what allied uniform you're wearing.” She glanced at the gathered men, each man wearing one of three possible military uniforms: British, French, or American.

“Once you've completed your task, fall back into the American controlled zone,” she continued. “You'll rendezvous with the rest of the mission team at the USBER building in Zehlendorf. The American diplomat in charge of US: Mission Berlin, a man named Allan Lightner, knows to expect your arrival. Tell the guards you are part of Howard Stark's team.”

Peggy took over then and said, “You've each been assigned a partner for this mission. No one goes anywhere without their partner. One diffuses, the other sights the area to keep watch for hostiles. We can expect there will be hostiles. The KGB will not have left this mission to go off without their presence. Anyone who threatens your mission completion is to be considered hostile and handled with extreme prejudice.”

“Turn to the next page,” instructed Gwen. “If you are approached by anyone resembling the man in this sketch, who goes by the code name of the Winter Soldier, fall back and contact one of the three team leaders. Assume him to be armed and extremely hostile. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary in order to clear the way for your fall back plan.”

“Any questions?” asked Peggy.

Agent Vetrov raised his hand. “What about Flick Five? What are our instructions if we see a KGB friendly attempting to help us free of our locations?”

“If they aren't shooting at you, don't shoot back,” she responded.

“One other thing,” interrupted Howard. “We aren't certain, yet, about the nature and complexity of the explosive devices. Each of you has experience diffusing bombs, but don't assume you'll recognize the components in these devices. If you don't recognize said components, wait until I've discerned the appropriate method of disarming them. I will give instructions via your comm units.”

When no other questions were forthcoming, Gwen turned and pinned her sometimes-lovers with a meaningful glance, taking a lingering look at each to memorize their faces. The chances of everyone making it out alive were slim. She needed to remember them as they were in those last few moments of peace. Them being fully human made her very aware of just how vulnerable they were.

“Agent Vetrov, you're with me,” she said, finally breaking the tense silence aboard the plane. “So help me, if you groan in dread, I will have your bollocks for earrings.”

Dimitry grinned and hurried forward to do a final weapons check with her. “On the contrary, Boss. You're rather like my good luck charm after the Vault.”

Whatever he was smoking needed to be shared with the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. How he could be so jovial after Agent Baro was a complete mystery, one she might examine more closely after Project Wotan had been successfully completed. For now, she would concentrate on not getting anyone else killed and praying to Eros that the Winter Soldier wasn't in West Berlin, as she had a terrible tendency of tracking him down and using his dick as a stress reliever.

Their landing was smooth as silk, and each team deployed without incident, Howard heading off with Peggy beside him. Trying to split those two up and force them to work with other operatives would have been as effective as Gwen beating her skull against a brick wall. Sure, it might have been more dangerous for them to be together. If their team came under fire, both would die. But they would have grumbled incessantly and made it impossible to work with their assigned partners.

A woman wearing a nineteen sixty pattern Combat Dress uniform issued to British soldiers was an unusual sight in an era where female uniforms were still almost exclusively skirt suits. Part of her got absolute jollies from seeing some of the men look twice when she passed. Another part regretted having not worn a woman's uniform, as she was drawing an awful lot of attention. Fighting in a female uniform, though, would have been a distraction. 

She flashed a badge at the airport checkpoint and was waved through security along with her partner. Their first order of business was to recheck their map to locate the two bombs they'd been assigned. Each bomb had been named to distinguish its location on the map, so they were in charge of locating and disarming Jagermeister and Firewater. And they were hoping the mission didn't go all pear shaped from the KGB moving bomb locations as a precaution after the raid on the Vault. That happened, and Project Wotan was going to be a short disaster.

West Berlin's atmosphere was decidedly tense. The erection of the wall—which actually wasn't a wall yet and consisted mostly of a barbed wire fence patrolled by numerous East German forces—and corresponding massacre of anyone caught sneaking over the boundary had set everyone on edge. That the event had happened in the better part of a day made things even worse. Construction of concrete reinforcements along the barbed wire barrier had begun two days later. If the Soviets and East Germans had carried out such a coordinated operation in so little time, what else were they capable of? Well, she knew what else they were capable of, and it wasn't reassuring in the least.

Their progress through the city was noted by wary citizens trying to get on with their daily lives but went unimpeded, and they were ahead of schedule upon arriving at the first of their two target locations. If the intelligence Flick Five had sent them was accurate, Firewater was located in the basement of a factory and accessed through a narrow alley between said factory and a machine shop. The alley was vacant, but both knew better than to drop their guard.

Good thing, too, because when Vetrov went to jimmy the side door open, two men dressed in British Combat Dress were waiting on the other side. Her hand went to her sidearm, but she didn't draw. They could be real British soldiers, however unlikely.

“What you doing nosing around 'ere?” asked the taller of the two in Cockney English.

“Got turned around in dis God forsaken shithole quick as you can say Bob's your uncle,” Gwen responded with a disarming smile. “Fink you could poin' us in the right direction?”

“You 'ad better turn around an' take a right two blocks down. Bein' in dis building requires top level security clearance.”

Gunshots would have been a wonderful method of giving away their position, so she lunged forward without warning and sank a knife into the speaker's throat to sever his vocal cords. “No self-respecting Cockney speaker would pronounce the double T's in 'better,'” she said, the Cockney disappearing from her own accent.

Vetrov had already downed the second guard by the time she'd finished with her mark. He wiped his knife off on the dead German's uniform. “Really? You figured out they weren't British because he mispronounced one word?”

“I didn't like the look of his face either.” She grinned at the collywobbles that showed clearly on Dimitry's face. There was a man who was concerned about how easily she was incited to violence.

“Remind me to brush up on my Cockney before ever attempting to speak it with you in future, yes?”

Dragging the dead bodies out of sight would have resulted in little gain given they had no means of mopping up the blood slicking the concrete, so they didn't bother. They pulled a heavy piece of equipment in front of the door to bar entry or at least buy them time to respond should someone attempt to break in. Dimitry was forced to take a breather after moving the machinery when his arms were left feeling like soft putty. Gwen experienced no such fatigue.

But they were soon on the move and heading deeper into the warehouse. Three more guards pretending to be British officers were dealt with en route, and by the time they located the device in the basement, Howard was already feeding them information on diffusing it. The bomb itself was no bigger around than a standard toilet bowl but was packed with enough explosives to level the building. More troublesome were the forty vials of green liquid contained inside.

“Vetrov, your hands are steadier than mine, but if you don't feel comfortable carrying out the procedure, I won't ask you to volunteer.”

“Step aside, Boss, and let the magic fingers go to work. Diffusing a bomb can't be a far different experience than deactivating door security.” He flashed a rather cocky grin and knelt down beside the explosive to unroll their pouch of tools.

“I should have made you pretend to be American. Clint Eastwood and John Wayne would be envious of your ability to cowboy up. That is what the Yanks call it, isn't it?”

He snickered but didn't bother responding, as he was listening intently to Howard's instructions. It was a complex process that couldn't be achieved in a matter of minutes. They were on location for a good twenty minutes before Dimitry slid the detonator out of position and started removing vials of chemical concentrate. The ooze was thicker than expected, more like blood than water.

“Any idea what the compound is, Howard?” she asked.

“I wouldn't even be comfortable hazarding a guess without putting it through a mass spectrometer. Let's err on the side of caution and continue assuming it's bad news.”

Each delicate vial was packed carefully inside a specially-designed storage box by slipping into one of twenty foam compartments. The foam cradled each snugly to avoid any jostling that might cause cracks and allow goop to leak out. Vetrov attached one box to his belt. She grabbed the other before calling for a status report from their five teams to chart everyone's progress.

A sense of foreboding nagged her into believing things were going too swimmingly. Team three had been held up by French soldiers and hadn't completed the first leg of their mission yet, but everyone else was running on schedule and proceeding to their second explosive device. When a mission went too smoothly, there tended to be running, screaming, and bleeding later in the night. That meant she was even tenser than she otherwise would have been.

They were nearing Jagermeister, tucked away at the end of a dark alley and hidden behind a dumpster, when a black figure came out of the shadows. Electricity crackled and arched between the combatant's wrist and Vetrov's neck, which took the brunt of the lightning-fast attack. All he got off was a quick yelp before the blue spark leveled him to the ground, allowing his attacker to somersault off him and regain her feet. There was no mistaking her figure for anything but a woman.

Also? Gwen hated being right all the time.

Knowing an attacker was present didn't prepare her for being charged in the pitch blackness. She had just enough time to pop a flare before the figure leaped into a handspring. Thick thighs clamped around her neck, and a powerful body wrenched her from her feet, sending Gwen sucking pavement while the attacker landed graceful nearby. Definitely a woman. No man would employ such a feminine—a woman's legs were generally stronger than her upper body—attack.

The container of confiscated vials was jarred from her grip and clattered across the pavement. Light from the hissing flare provided enough illumination to get a general sense of her opponent's size and shape while climbing back to her feet. She cracked her neck and settled into a fighting stance with hands poised to defend her face.

Her opponent couldn't hide the widening of eyes and quick inhalation that gave away how startled she was. A normal person would have likely suffered fractured vertebrae from the attack. That Gwen seemed undeterred and fully capable of scrapping was abnormal.

“Not many people take me by surprise,” she said while looking the combatant head to toe. A short whistle of appreciation was forthcoming upon noting the supple, curvacious body packed with muscle. But her opponent stood more than twenty centimeters shorter than her own towering one hundred eighty two centimeters.

“Silat,” acknowledged the combatant. “You have made quite a name for yourself.”

“I feel unprepared. You know my name, but I haven't a clue as to yours.”

“You may call me the Black Widow.”

She accepted the information with a nod. “Shall we, then?”

It became obvious Black Widow was the quicker of the two. She scored the opening hit with a speedy assault that ended in an elbow impacting against Gwen's ribcage, resulting in the larger woman stumbling backward a few steps. Widow, however, clearly couldn't generate the strength to crack bones or produce a devastating attack.

And Gwen was ready for her the second time. When another swift volley was inbound, she used Widow's momentum against her by sidestepping and slamming the heel of her palm into the other woman's spine. Between the forward motion and the blow, the woman sailed into a wall.

Battle between the two was fierce with each exchanging blows and retreating to find another angle of attack. While Widow was faster, Gwen had a good two stone on her opponent. Her ultimate advantage, though, rested in Widow's lack of experience against another female. The woman expected her to fight like a man and was employing techniques accordingly, but she wasn't a man and wouldn't be goaded into an overaggressive display of machismo.

No quick victory could be achieved. The two women were so closely matched in skill level that they needed to wear one another down before either could claim victory. What spurred the subtle change of focus was Vetrov finally returning to consciousness and sliding across the alley to start working on the bomb, forcing Widow's attention between the two.

The slippery combatant was in the process of going for him to stop his progress when Gwen sank her fingers into the other woman's hair and used that point of leverage to fling her across the alley. Cracks were left in masonry from the impact of Widow's body, who recoiled and launched into a last ditch effort to prevent the bomb from being nullified.

“Keep working,” Gwen instructed her partner upon placing herself between the two.

“You sure, Boss? I'd rather get some popcorn and enjoy the show.”

“Keep working,” she repeated.

Desperation finally caused their opponent to make the first real mistake. Widow shoved away from the wall and charged headlong. That blue energy was back to crackling at her wrist as her weapon finally attained enough of a charge to deliver another blow.

Gwen sidestepped again, caught her in midair, and slammed her into the pavement. A knee was jammed against that dangerous hand to immobilize it and prevent herself from being lit up like a Christmas tree. She balled up a fist in anticipation of finally knocking the silly bitch unconscious.

No such luck, though. The other woman suddenly pulled a move straight out of the Winter Soldier's playbook. A knife was palmed from a compartment on the back of her hip, flipped to change her grip to a plunging angle, and punched through the muscle roping Gwen's bicep. The knife was left in place while Widow caught Gwen's fist and wrenched hard enough something snapped.

A shout of pain escaped, and she was forced to roll into a backward somersault and put a few meters distance between them. She was left nursing a fractured wrist with a knife sticking out of her arm. He had used that exact same move on her once before. “Is he here?”

“Who?”

“Your trainer. Is the Winter Soldier on site?”

The woman stiffened, clearly favoring her left ankle by that point and unable to put full weight on the extremity. “I would say that's none of your business.”

Colorful expletives died on her tongue when the terrible bark of a gunshot coming through the comm devices made her eardrum throb. It was followed by Howard's shout. Adrenaline turned to ice water in her veins when her male lover exclaimed a warning that the Winter Soldier was active and had just shot Agent Carter. Oh, and there was blood everywhere.

That moment of distraction gave Black Widow an opening that was confidently seized.

Taking the combatant's knee to her face couldn't even dislodge the dread hardening like drying concrete in her gut, and the sinuous bitch nearly slipped through her fingers to threaten Vetrov's position before she was capable of responding. Gwen caught her at the last second. Blood rushing into her ears prevented her from hearing the woman's distressed screams as she clamped a punishing grip onto the back of Widow's skull.

Cold-blooded fury congealed where dread had once been and fueled her attack. Bone crunched when she slammed her opponent's face against the brick wall. Once. Twice. Repeatedly. Without an ounce of mercy. The only thing her brain could process was that the Winter Soldier had shot Peggy, likely fatally with the way Howard's voice came completely unhinged. 

And the cunt, the filthy gutter-tramp, had been in intimate contact with him to receive training. If she couldn't pay him back, she would bring suffering to his underling.

Copious amounts of blood and bits of shattered teeth mingled on Widow's mangled face before any sort of defense could be enacted. Gwen didn't even realize she was using her fractured wrist until the other woman's desperation allowed her to twist in ways normal adrenaline would have prevented to lock onto the weakened appendage. Even then, she wouldn't have relinquished her hold until the cunt was dead just because of the accompanying pain. It was the weakness of the bone that made her hand go numb and loosened her grip in the woman's hair.

Distressed, an eye bulging awkwardly from a critically-weakened socket and face covered in blood, the Black Widow fled instead of attempting to mount another offense to stop Vetrov's work.

“Boss.” There was a certain softness to Dimitry's voice that indicated he wasn't sure if he wanted to interrupt her thought process or not.

Ultimately, it was Howard who refocused her attention when she realized he was rattling off instructions in a frantic whisper. “Agent Carter needs immediate evacuation to a medical facility. The Winter Soldier is still on site. I need back up before he unleashes the explosives. Can anyone hear me? We're pinned down with that sick bastard between us and any exits.”

“She isn't dead,” Gwen sobbed. She didn't realize her hand was covered in Widow's blood before clamping it over her mouth, smearing the dirty cunt's gore all over her face like she'd morphed into a deranged vampire.

“No, Boss, she isn't dead.” Vetrov looked like he was going to touch her but must have thought better of the contact. “Jagermeister is disarmed. What do you say we go save the big bosses and put that cocksucker six feet under where he belongs? He's barking up the wrong tree if he thinks we'll let him get away with this.”

She flicked a glance in his direction, some of the tension draining from her extremities and grateful her brain had something else to latch onto. “I thought you were Russian, but you sound so damned American sometimes.”

He shrugged and smiled sheepishly. “American born to first generation Russian immigrants.”

“That explains so much.”

Vetrov crouched to gather the four containers of chemical vials they'd collected.

Gwen used that moment to pull Widow's knife from her bicep and administer a quick field dressing to prevent herself from bleeding all over West Berlin.

***

Aleksander lit another cigarette. The manic need to hear from the Winter Soldier made him unusually twitchy, so when the door suddenly opened and banged closed again, he jerked. That Vasily Karpov was the one who entered did nothing to ease his tension.

“Any word yet?” Karpov asked.

His response was a second slower than suited his commander's desires, something that resulted in a meaty fist striking the back of his head. Sinking into himself wasn't possible, so he had to settle on shrinking lower in his chair. The quivering mass in the core of his body felt like it weighed a ton.

“Not only have you lost the promise I once saw in you, but you've lost your tongue as well? You have become such a disappointment, Aleksander. What happened to that bold young boy who killed a Nazi with his bare hands in Kronos?”

“H-he's still here, S-sir.”

Karpov delivered another whack to the back of his head. “Then stop stuttering and prove it. Has there been word from the asset?”

“Alexander Sh-Shelepin's operatives threatened the S.H.I.E.L.D operation taking place in W-West B-Berlin, forcing the asset to reveal his presence ahead of schedule. Agent Carter stepped in the way of his shot and intercepted the bullet meant for Shelepin's asset.” He didn't dare look to judge Karpov's emotional response. He didn't need to. The man was audibly grinding his teeth.

“Why am I surrounded by incompetent people? He was so promising when you first brought him to us. His lack of focus lately is most disturbing and irregular. The asset you first recovered would never have missed a shot like that. Perhaps it's time to reassess his position in the KGB.”

“No!” Aleksander surged to his feet but realized his mistake the second he looked into his commander's eyes and witnessed the odd mixture of fury and disappointment there.

Karpov forced his broad body into his personal space. “I've seen the way you look at him sometimes. At first, I was willing to write the personal connection off as pride in having brought a strong asset into the organization. Maybe even protectiveness. Any commander takes pride in the men he recruits, especially one so ruthless and efficient. But this is different. Isn't it?”

Backpedaling away from the confrontational waves rolling off the other man's body was impossible; there was nowhere to go. He was trapped between Karpov and the desk, trapped and unable to free himself from the discomfort. “N-no. No, it's not like that. Other handlers discipline wayward operatives through sexual ownership and degradation.”

“Of course. It's a worthy method and breaks even the strongest spirits in some cases. Forcing a man on his knees to take your maleness in his mouth is a well-proven means of putting him in his place. Bending him over a surface and entering him from behind is documented as a successful method of proving your ownership and superiority. The problematic element, Boy, is your unwillingness to stop there. You don't want to merely prove your dominance; you want to be dominated. By him.”

“P-please, Sir. I don't know what you're t-talking about.”

“You know of what I speak.” Karpov pressed his cheek against the boy's in order to whisper in his ear. “I've seen you watching his handlers bathe and shave him when he's unstable and unwilling to cooperate. Your eyes linger lustfully on his appendage, on the soap bubbles gliding down that fine physique, and you lick your lips in envy of them.”

“S-stop!” Aleksander shoved hard at his commander's—at his foster father's chest to reclaim some of his personal space. “I don't feel those things you claim I feel!”

Karpov slicked back hair that had become dislodged from its tidy position and straightened his jacket. “Then you're a liar. The truth is, Boy, that I won't live forever. I had hoped to pass my legacy down to you, that you would be my heir and claim leadership of this organization I built. But how can I trust what I've built to the hands of a young man consumed with unnatural desire and perversion? If you continue down this path, I will not know you. Take that final step with the asset, and I will put a bullet between his eyes to save you from yourself.”

“Y-you w-wouldn't. None of this is his fault!”

“Wouldn't I? I would do anything to protect you even if it's from yourself.”

A trembling bottom lip was no way to prove his manhood to his commander. Stopping that wayward reaction proved impossible, but there was a tiny voice buried in his subconscious sobbing like the five year old boy Karpov had pulled from the wreckage of Kronos, sobbing not from terror but from gratitude. His commander—his foster father would do anything to save him.

“Stop your tears, Boy. Dry your eyes. You've always been such a sensitive child.”

Getting himself together required a monumental act of self-control, but he managed the feat after a few minutes. His spine was straighter, his posture more erect, when he finally wrestled his chaotic emotions back into some degree of order.

“Good. Now tell me where the mission stands.”

“The asset was attempting to secure the success of the S.H.I.E.L.D mission by providing cover for one of their lead teams when Agent Carter, one of the co-founders of the organization, stepped in the way of his shot. He cannot ascertain if she's survived the injury, and it provided Shelepin's men the chance to get behind cover. The asset has them pinned down at present and is waiting on orders.”

“Agent Carter and her S.H.I.E.L.D operatives aren't important; they are tools to achieving an end. We are hardly concerned when a tool breaks. Criminalizing Shelepin and proving his incompetence to Premier Khrushchev is the only thing that matters at present. What about Black Widow?”

“She's unstable. Shelepin undermined her programming when he captured her. He used her to attack one of their lead operatives, a woman whose name is listed only as Silat. This woman beat her near to death, but our agents picked Miss Romanova up off the streets. She'll be transported here.”

“Excellent. Then the evening will be more fortuitous than I had anticipated. Our little family will be reunited soon. Be sure to have Miss Romanova wiped and reprogrammed when she arrives.”

“What orders should I relay, then?”

“What orders do you believe can salvage the mission? Bear in mind, my son, that if Shelepin fulfills his promise to the premier by emptying West Berlin, he will be vastly harder to unseat from his position of power. Knowing that, what would you recommend?”

A few moments passed while he considered the conundrum from multiple angles. Finally, he responded, “If he can't flush Shelepin's operatives out and finish disarming the device himself, he should enact a targeted detonation. Detonating one bomb will alert the allied forces and flood the city with armed combatants, preventing the rest of his operatives from successfully stopping the S.H.I.E.L.D raid. A minimal number of casualties will result, and the chemical aspect of the detonation will only affect a small percentage of the population.”

Karpov smiled. “There is the boy who showed such boldness and promise.” His lips turned down when he saw the bruise barely visible above the young man's collar.

***

“Howard? Howard what's your position and situation?” Gwen demanded. The whisper hopefully wouldn't tip off the Winter Soldier to her location, but if it did, she would relish the confrontation.

“Agent Holcomb, thank Einstein. We're pinned down in the southeast corner of the parking garage's ground floor behind a piece of heavy equipment. There seems to be two shooters present.”

“Hold there. I have two teams with me. We're coming in hard and fast to take out the hostiles. We'll have the two of you out of there in no time.”

“Gwen—” Stark seemed to choke on the adrenaline that had to be fueling his system. “Gwen, you have to hurry. She's bleeding out on my lap. I have pressure on the wound, but she needs immediate evacuation transport. Hurry. There's so much blood.”

There wasn't room to panic. Panic meant Peggy was dead. Panic meant that cocksucker got away after having put a bullet in the woman she loved. The amount of quaking her foundations did over the unexpected label placed on her feelings made her tremble as she took cover behind a support column.

Night vision on her sniperscope revealed his location despite their dim surroundings. Yakov was crouched behind a nearby car, the armed explosive at a midpoint between them. However, getting a clear shot from her position was impossible, so she crept around the column to get a better angle. Her rifle settled firmly into place against her shoulder, and a head covered in dark, grimy hair appeared directly in the cross-hairs of her scope.

Not a thought was paid to the intimacies they'd shared when she steadied the rifle. Maybe if he hadn't shot Peggy. Maybe if he wasn't actively foiling such an important mission. The way things stood, she felt not an ounce of remorse upon drawing in a calming breath and holding it in preparation of taking the shot that would end his life.

A shower of masonry exploded an inch above her head.

She ducked and rolled back around the column to take cover seconds before another shot joined the first as an enemy marksman took bead upon her position. The chaotic moment cleared, and she suddenly realized Yakov was no longer pinned down behind the car. He'd taken the moment to roll across the distance separating him from Everclear. 

Such a reaction seemed contradictory with her earlier assumption. Had the enemy marksman actively been keeping him from reaching the explosive device? And if that were the case and the second shooter wasn't Yakov's ally, why had said shooter taken a shot at her?

Whatever. She was just going to start shooting people who weren't on her team until someone paid the cost of Peggy's injury with their blood. A message was delivered from Dimitry saying he finally had the second shooter in sight, a man dressed in a British uniform.

Things seemed to happen simultaneously, like the world had decided it hadn't been turning fast enough, over-adjusted, and was suddenly spinning out of control on its axis like a top. The Winter Soldier bailed from his position and was running low to the ground to provide a small profile. Dimitry took the shot at the second shooter. At the same time, Gwen saw the two minute count down the bastard had placed on the detonation clock in angry red symbols.

Radio silence was shot to Hell and back. “Fall back. Everyone fall back! He's rigged the bomb to explode. I'm going after Carter and Stark.”

“You'll never make it, Boss!”

Lips thinning, she yanked the communication receiver out of her ear to avoid the noise of Vetrov yammering. Yakov was still heading across the parking lot floor. She took the shot. Her bullet impacted against his thigh, causing him to jerk upright while turning, a gun in hand, but she'd already aligned her next shot by the time he was in position to see her. Not even a split second of hesitation slowed her trigger finger, and her slug buried into his chest wall.

That should have been enough. It should have at least slowed a normal person and eventually led to death. There was no way her bullet had missed at least damaging his heart. But he spared a split second to find his shooter, eyes widening, before stumbling and racing off in the direction Howard and Peggy were taking cover.

“Fuck me sideways with a damned Buddha dong. Bloody bollocks!” All she could do was charge after him to defend her lovers.

***

Peggy knew the world was slipping away. Her extremities were cold and numb as her life pumped into the jacket Howard clamped against her stomach. It was already saturated. Seeing the Winter Soldier race around the machinery, therefore, seemed more like a vision than reality.

He was broad and potent, the bottom half of his face hidden behind a black rubber mask that prevented anyone from identifying him, at least anyone who hadn't banged him. In other words, Gwen was one of the rare individuals who'd lived to tell others about his appearance, and a jolt of terror increased her pulse. If he found Gwen, he would kill her.

Protesting Howard's actions when he abandoned his position and placed himself to intercept their attacker accomplished not a whit of good. The soft whimper fell on deaf ears, as the silly git appeared determined to sacrifice himself for someone who wouldn't make it out alive anyway. When she died, she was absolutely coming back as an angry spirit just to strangle him.

Her heart was in her throat, but there was absolutely nothing she could do to interfere.

That was when she noticed blood wetting their enemy's leather battledress. The tiniest spark of hope ignited. He was already weakened. Howard might stand half a chance against a weakened opponent. A well-placed blow crushed that hope and crumpled Stark to the floor.

What she didn't expect was for the Winter Soldier to fling Stark over his shoulder. He crouched to tangle cybernetic fingers in her uniform jacket and seemed on the cusp of dragging them both free of the structure. Or maybe she was hallucinating. That seemed more likely, only he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her chest, and she knew she wouldn't have hallucinated that.

There wasn't enough time to be offended, and she was mustering whatever reserves remained to help him only to realize he was staring at Steve's nickel suspended from the chain on her neck. Seeing it clearly disturbed him. He yanked his hand back as though scalded and couldn't pull his glance away from the artifact.

Something vaguely familiar about his eyes made her take a closer look. “Who are you?” she rasped.

His glance lifted toward her face. Confusion knit his brow. But time finally ran out.

The explosion rocked the parking structure's foundations. Falling debris collapsed and plunged the area into darkness. She couldn't see or move, as her leg became trapped beneath part of the machinery that crumpled around them. Breathing hurt like nothing she could describe. There was no distinguishing whether the Winter Soldier had been trapped with them or if he'd been thrown clear of the blast, but it didn't really matter. She couldn't hold him off, and Howard was unconsciousness.

No telling how much time passed before she roused. Maybe hours. Probably just seconds. Howard was coughing when she came to. He coughed into the collar of his uniform dress shirt and pressed a gas mask over her face instead of his own, the rotten twerp. As if she needed the gas mask when she could feel herself growing colder and clammier by the minute.

Somehow, she summoned enough fortitude to pry the mask from her face. The air reeked of chemical fumes that burned her lungs within seconds of exposure. She pulled herself up, grasped Howard by the back of the head and forced the mask onto his face.

“I'm already dead. Take it and live.”

“No. Yours was damaged in the collapse. Your constitution is already weakened from the gunshot. Exposure to the chemical gas will be the death of you.” He tried prying it from his face, a strain turning into an outright struggle to overpower her and enforce his will.

Funny how desperation to save a loved one often fueled a person beyond their normal limits. She wouldn't be able to overpower him under normal circumstances let alone after having been shot and suffering from blood loss. When it came down to nuts and bolts, he was physically stronger. But his struggles weren't enough to dislodge the grip clamping the gas mask over his face.

“Peggy! Don't do this. Please, don't do this. Just put the mask on.”

“You have to live,” she gasped. “One of us has to live. Someone has to take care of Gwen.”

“Please, don't make me watch you die.” He was pleading by that point, his voice breaking on emotion.

She was fully committed to making sure he got out of the situation alive, and no force on Earth could move her once she'd made up her mind. The chemical burned into her lungs more forcefully then, causing lung function to become even more erratic and breath to rattle in her chest.

“Live,” she commanded. Her eyes squeezed tightly closed. “Live.” Her chant was the last thing she heard before unconsciousness returned. She doubted she would ever wake up.

 

**Daily Notes: Post-dated 2 August, 1973 Was looking back through my journal to refresh my memory on a few things when I realized I'd forgotten to jot down some notes like I normally do on a daily basis. The tradition of keeping a journal was started back in the forties upon realizing I'd stopped aging the way normal people age. Being forty-three but still living in the body of a twenty-five year old is generally a cause for concern. Thought it was a good idea to jot down a few things daily in case my age stretches for so long that I eventually start forgetting.**

**Thinking back on this ordeal is still difficult. I still have nightmares. That helpless feeling in the pit of my stomach took years to go away.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: The stand-off at Checkpoint Charlie


	14. 22 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S.H.I.E.L.D must transport a priceless and dangerous artifact out of West Berlin past Soviet-controlled East Germany.

**22 October, 1961**

Three words had never sounded so good before. Relief threatened to turn her bladder into a traitor, and she likely sagged a few inches when “they are alive” was repeated from the numerous rescue personnel on scene. The morning was cold and gray. A light drizzle peppered down around them. One of Howard's interns had mentioned something about the rain being a good thing. It would help limit the spread of the chemical toxins.

Gwen rushed forward when a group of men carried two stretchers from the garage. Much of the main structure remained, only moderately damaged, but the northwest corner had sustained the main force of the explosion and was little better than rubble. The only reason Howard and Peggy were still alive was because they'd been closer to the southeast and had been sheltered behind a large piece of equipment that had formed a pocket of protection around them.

While the urge to make physical contact was strong when they were finally in sight, she forced herself to remain rooted to the spot. Rushing the small escort of military paramedics would have succeeded in slowing them down and preventing her lovers from reaching help all the sooner. She couldn't say if Agent Vetrov's hand clamped on her elbow was a show of stoic support or a grip to prevent her from making an absolute fool of herself in front of the allied army.

The slow and skinny of it equated to only being able to observe them from a distance. Responders were peeling a military grade gas mask from Howard's face in order to replace it with an oxygen mask. He was unconscious. A river of blood coated his face and matted his hair from a laceration along his scalp, but he appeared otherwise intact.

Peggy, on the other hand, was in worse shape. Blood soaked a jacket haphazardly shoved against her abdomen. She was unconscious. Paramedics described her as being unresponsive, and the soot and dirt coating her face attested to a lack of gas mask protection during the height of the collapse. Oxygen was being administered via a breathing bag. Her pallor was terrifying.

“Where are transporting them?” she asked the medical team, her voice muffled by her own mask. None of them knew how long the chemical agent would stay in the area, so all first responders had been instructed to wear protective clothing and breathing apparatuses. 

“Station Hospital in the American occupied zone. The British hospital has been evacuated along with the surrounding city blocks.”

She nodded once and allowed them to move past toward waiting ambulances.

Vetrov asked, “Do you want me to take over here, so you can ride with them, Boss?”

Something sarcastic hovered on the tip of her tongue. She couldn't tell him that of course she wanted to ride with them. She couldn't tell him how much she cared about them despite having boasted about being immune to orgasm-based pair (or triplet in her case) bonding. Kind of hard to tell the rest of the organization they weren't allowed to fraternize when the top three agents were balls deep in each others sexual gratification.

She turned to respond and caught him in the middle of a sympathetic expression.

His grip tightened briefly on her elbow. “I've got this if you want to go with them. It's okay.”

She was suddenly suffering from the distinct impression Dimitry already knew damn well what was going on in Camp Threesome, although she wasn't entirely sure it could be classified as a threesome when Howard's contact with Peggy during their encounters was usually limited to steamy petting. But she shook her head and squeezed his wrist briefly with her free hand. The wrist Widow had fractured was splinted and mummified with gauze thanks to Dimitry's attentiveness.

“Thank you, but I need to stay on the ground. The bombs may have been dismantled and the chemicals collected, but there's one more thing we need to do here. Can you hang around until I complete the mission, or do you need a rest?”

“Whatever you need, I'm your man. What are we up against? KGB nest of super agents? Master Man decided to rear his ugly mug again? Whole box of puppies need saving somewhere?” He paused and cracked his knuckles. “You say the words, Boss, and I'm there.”

“Einstein fucked Euripides, but whatever did I do to deserve you?” She patted his hand briefly. “Consequently, Euripides cited Einstein's massive schlong as the reason for his transition into writing tragedies. Einstein responded by saying 'it's all relative, Man.'”

Vetrov cracked up laughing.

She quickly explained the situation concerning Wotan and their need to find his tomb and transport him to a safer location than beneath one of the most hotly contested cities in Europe. He took the news surprisingly well. But signing on to S.H.I.E.L.D service meant signing on to the weird and unusual. Captain America had been balls deep in some of the strangest missions on record. Fighting a man whose head was nothing more than a red skull? Check. Hunting down Baron Blood, who had sold himself to Dracula to become a vampire? Check. Shit, what was locating an ancient, unknown entity who fed on fear when compared to that?

They spent the better part of the day combing West Berlin. Whether or not Peggy and Howard had survived was always in the back of her mind, which meant Vetrov was actually the one who spotted an old engraving of a bear consuming a serpent. It was located on a flagstone in the oldest part of West Berlin that had once belonged to the medieval settlement.

Tracing that flagstone to the cellar of a modern tavern standing over the foundations of a medieval structure took even more time. The tavern had once been home to a governmental building that had been destroyed during World War II. Another engraving was located in a cellar packed with beer kegs that serviced the taps in the main tavern above.

Several S.H.I.E.L.D agents were on hand to help them bust down the brick wall on which the carving was located. The tavern owner turned away in distress over the destruction, but she promised to send him a check for repairing the damage. Once the dust cleared, they found a series of tunnels running beneath the city.

She flicked on a torch and stepped inside at the head of the group. Part of the tunnels had since collapsed, so shimmying around inside proved difficult, but they eventually found themselves transitioning from underground tunnel to actual cave shaft. It opened up into a much larger cavern. A colony of bats were disturbed upon their entrance and fled in a flurry of wings.

It was inside that cavern they located a golden coffin. Well, she wouldn't call it a coffin so much as a display case. The container itself was made of gold and carved with reliefs that appeared vaguely Norse. An iconic, dragon-headed long ship decorated each side. However, an opaque substance thicker than glass covered the front, allowing her to peer into the coffin at its contents.

“Is that--?” Vetrov couldn't complete his question and passed the beam of his torch across the case again to illuminate the figure resting inside.

“Honestly? I don't want to know what it is. We can't leave something like this here for any old berk to find, but getting it out of here will be a nightmare.”

She paused and glanced once more at the figure inside. He was an old, bent man who had seen more years than was advisable. Snowy white hair and a long, scraggly beard did nothing to hide the ancient wrinkles on his face. A gnarled staff rested inside with him. The coffin and its occupant had clearly been interred in the cavern at least since The War given the caved in tunnel, as she assumed the damage had resulted from allied bombing. He should have been badly decomposed. He just... wasn't.

“Orders, Boss?”

“I bloody hate Germany.” A hand dragged over her face. “Get that tunnel cleared. This coffin isn't seeing the light of day until the path is open. I need to talk to Mister Lightner. There's no way we're shipping this out of here via plane, not when the KGB are likely watching us like hawks. All it would take is one rogue agent seeing us move this onto a plane to create a paper trail via the plane's identifying markers. Secondly, I want only our oldest and most trusted agents on this.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

She went to leave only to pause and look him in the eyes. “You're a credit to this organization, Agent Vetrov. Keep this up, and I can see you becoming one of our senior agents.”

“Agent Baro was—” He paused and looked down at his hands as though searching for the right words. “What you did for him in the Vault isn't something I'll ever forget. You did what I couldn't. Even if you hadn't earned my respect and loyalty before, you earned it then.”

She got the distinct impression Baro had meant more to Vetrov than any of them knew. Nodding, she squeezed his bicep to acknowledge his appreciation and then hurried wordlessly from the cavern to start setting up an extraction plan. West Berlin was an island in a sea of East German communism. Getting out with something as important as that coffin wouldn't be easy.

***

Six in the evening arrived, and she still hadn't been afforded the opportunity to check on the condition of her lovers. Normally, she loved her job, but the situation was such that sacrificing her personal connections to ensure the safety of the organization made her love it just a little less. Being jostled around in the back of a military transport truck with a possibly-Norse-non-decaying-mummy-deity draped heavily in canvas reduced a huge amount of brownie points. The transport truck finally moved into position several blocks away from Checkpoint Charlie to await further developments.

“Mister Lightner, are you sure this will work?” she asked into the communication devices linking the team to the US diplomat.

“It'll work, Miss Holcomb.”

“That's Agent Holcomb,” corrected Dimitry, who was sitting beside her. They were both dressed in American military fatigues.

A beat of silence was followed by Lightner responding, “Apologies, Agent Holcomb. My entourage is coming up on the checkpoint now.”

The comms afforded her an ear inside the diplomat's limousine, enough to make out a window being rolled down followed by an East German speaking in heavily-accented English. He requested to see traveling papers from the vehicle's occupants. Lightner responded by informing the East German his actions violated the allied agreement prohibiting Germans from stopping allied personnel and checking passports. However, he was prepared to comply if a Soviet official appeared to make the request.

Tension made breathing hurt during the brief exchange. His ploy seemed to be working, though. He was informed there were no Soviet's on duty that particular evening, and they would not be allowed to pass until such a time as their papers were cleared with border customs.

Normally, that would have been the end of it, but the diplomat and his party retreated back to the American side of the border crossing where she could hear him speaking to a US soldier. A call was placed to General Clay, who was John F. Kennedy's adviser in Berlin. Officials decided a show of force was necessary to reassert the rights of military personnel having free access into East Germany. Maintaining the Soviet's obligations in the treaty was worth the possibility of violence.

That was their signal, so she tapped the cab to get their truck moving. It fell into line with a group of jeeps containing armed military policemen, who surrounded Mister Lightner's vehicle. Her transport took up a position directly behind the diplomat's car with a military jeep occupying the space behind them to provide coverage to the rear.

She gripped the coffin when they lurched into motion again. “Balls, but I wish we could see what the Hell was going on out there.”

“Has anyone ever told you that your language is atrocious, Miss—Agent Holcomb?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't offer comprehensive tuition reimbursement, Mister Lightner. Just as soon as the UN decides to provide us more funding, I'll enroll in university and major in Shit That Doesn't Matter.”

Vetrov snickered.

Lightner didn't seem thoroughly impressed.

A gap in the canvas covering the utility truck gaped open a sliver, enough to allow her to peek out. Soldiers lined either side of the street on the East German side of Checkpoint Charlie. They were armed with rifles. A discussion seemed to be taking place as to whether or not they should attempt to stop the crossing. One Jerry shouldered his rifle.

She tensed. Her own sidearm was eased from its holster in anticipation of shots being fired. Dropping the Jerry before he could get off the shot was pointless. If she fired, they would fire, and the whole bloody place would go up with violence. But having their fates left in the hands of the Americans quickly drove her bonkers.

Tension passed when the East German was prompted into lowering his weapon by one of his comrades, and the border agents decided asserting themselves wasn't worth the risk of another world war. Their convoy completed the crossing into East Germany and only stopped upon arrival outside a theater to allow Mister Lightner and his party to disembark. While they enjoyed the opera, their military escort pulled behind the theater where they would wait to escort the diplomats back into West Berlin. 

Gwen lowered the back gate and dropped out ahead of Vetrov to signal the S.H.I.E.L.D assets hidden amongst the real members of the military escort. The coffin was unloaded and transferred to a nondescript van waiting for them in the lot behind the theater. It was stowed carefully inside, covered with tarps, and surrounded by painting supplies to make it look like they were coming from a job site. 

She climbed behind the wheel while ordering, “Make sure the American diplomats get back into West Berlin safely. After that, you're all on guard duty at Station Hospital to protect the big bosses. Mister Lightner, you still there?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but the distinct desire to wash your mouth out with soap...” He allowed the comment to trail off. “On second thought, being provided a reason to stick it to the East Germans and Soviets is always a pleasure. Good luck moving forward with your mission. We'll keep an eye on Mister Stark and Agent Carter.”

Once Vetrov was in the passenger seat, she saluted her comrades and left the empty lot with her precious cargo. Traveling papers tucked inside the glove compartment indicated they were both Hungarians. There was also enough cash to cover expenses and emergencies. After their arrival in Hungary, they were set to catch a transport plane back to France followed by a flight to the American-controlled Thule Airbase located north of the Arctic circle.

 

**Daily Notes: Traveling to Hungary with Agent Vetrov. Nearly hit a massive deer when I couldn't keep my mind focused on the road. Incidentally, it was standing in the middle of the road, so it wasn't really my fault so much as the deer's fault. Vetrov still made me pull over to let him drive.**

**No idea what kind of condition Carter and Stark are in. Don't even know if they're still alive. We've been cut off from communication for twenty-four hours.**

**Also, I have no idea if they ever found the Winter Soldier's body. I shot him cleanly. He shouldn't have lived through that, but he did. There's something not human with regards to his physiology. I hadn't been expecting that. It was foolish to think I was the only one.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Who is Flick Five?


	15. 27 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is Flick Five?

**27 October, 1961**

“How can you possibly be so dour on so delightful a day?” Karpov asked.

Aleksander stood inside the observation bay looking into Rodchenko's laboratory when his foster-father entered. The sudden voice didn't elicit a flinch this time. His concentration was fully invested in the asset strapped to the doctor's chair. Said doctor was whispering encouragement, phrases like “everything will be better when I've finished with you” and “I will quiet all that awful noise in your head if you stay calm.” And the asset remained eager to take the prescribed medication. 

Karpov's voice hardened. “What have I told you about—” The man's comment was interrupted when he arrived shoulder to shoulder with Aleksander. “Ah. It's her. What is her condition?”

“Miss Romanova was initially unresponsive when our team apprehended her. Her physical condition was and continues to be poor. She took quite the beating at the hands of their agent, but she will survive.” Cringing when the headpiece brushed Natalia's swollen and damaged face had nothing to do with empathy and everything to do with understanding that pain.

“Then why the black look? The mission was a rousing success with far reaching consequences. We could not have planned today's developments any better had we done so purposefully.”

“I haven't kept abreast with today's news,” he responded absently.

“American and Russian tanks are engaged in a standoff at the Friedrichstrasse checkpoint. Premier Khrushchev must now choose between open hostilities that could spark another world war or being made a fool of in public by backing down. This will be the ruin of Mister Shelepin.”

“Then let us hope Mister Shelepin doesn't manage to find a crack to crawl into, Sir.”

Karpov pulled his glance away from the Black Widow. “Out with it.”

“Yakov is missing.” The petulant tone of voice surely did nothing to dissuade Karpov's assessment that he was unduly attached to James, but there was no helping it.

“What do you mean, he's missing? Was he caught in the explosion? That would likely be the best possible outcome. You cannot apprehend and question a dead man. Dead men cannot spill secrets.”

Words couldn't describe how much he wanted to slug his foster-father for saying something so heartless. That gut reaction was trampled, and he instead responded, “No. He was seen by one of our operatives fleeing the location after the explosion. They lost sight of him amidst the smoke and debris. He hasn't checked in with his handlers. Neither have his travel papers been reported as passing through the checkpoints. He's _missing_ , Sir.”

The seriousness of the matter dawned upon Karpov's expression moments later.

***

Invasive images made him feel like his brain was being ripped apart. Were his symptoms from the shock of having been shot near the heart or from the terrible feeling of wrongness that was pulling his reality apart one fiber at a time? What were the symptoms? _Think._ Who had that woman been back at the parking garage? Who had the man been? Why had he been intent on saving them? Orders? That couldn't be right. Karpov had only instructed him to ensure the S.H.I.E.L.D mission was a success. He had not stipulated their agents should survive to be fought at a later date. 

What was he supposed to be thinking about? _Create a list of symptoms._

_Weak and rapid pulse._

_Nauseousness._

_Fixed gaze. Dilated pupils._

Who had that woman been? He should have known her. That necklace? Where had he seen that necklace before? Why couldn't he remember? _Think. Create a list of symptoms._

_Weak and rapid pulse. Nauseousness. Fixed gaze. Dilated pupils._

He was going to vomit.

_Cold, clammy skin._

_Confusion. Definite confusion._

A hand pressed a wad of cloth over the gunshot wound on his chest. It was bleeding again. That really wasn't a surprise considering how much he'd been stumbling around. She had shot him! Red had actually pulled the trigger. She was his rebellion against his handlers. Against Sir Karpov and Sir Lukin. They could never know about Red. They would kill her to prove their control over him. 

_Back to that list of symptoms._

He was definitely in shock. The symptoms fit. His body had never been tasked with surviving a gunshot so close to his heart. There were no guarantees Hydra's serum would save him. That woman and her necklace. Teeth gritted, he ground the heel of his palm against his forehead in an attempt to wipe out the images creeping back into his mind's eye.

They were laughing when they caught the last train out to Coney Island. He felt through his pockets looking for the fare. City transportation had just lowered it to a nickel. That meant fun in the sun for millions of hard working peons who hadn't been able to afford transportation previously.

“Hey, Steve, you got a nickel? I left all my change back in the can at the apartment.”

“You're so forgetful, Buck. What are we going to do with you?” Steve fished an Indian Head nickel from his pocket and flicked it across the way.

“You know me. Why remember things like pennies when you've got my back? One word, and you'll flick five my way and smile while doing it.”

_Whose memories?!_

They raced into the subway station together to catch the train out of Brooklyn. By the time they made it aboard through the closing doors, Steve was wheezing for breath and leaning against a row of seats. That thin body shook from the exertion of what had been a quick dash. A hand was settled on Steve's back and rubbed to help ease his air flow.

“Come on, Buddy. Breathe.” He looked around for any open seats, but the train was packed beyond capacity with eager New Yorkers looking for fresh air and sunshine.

“It's okay. I'll be fine.”

“Fine,” he scoffed. “You just got over pneumonia. If that damn landlord had fixed the window like he said he was going to, you wouldn't have gotten sick. Maybe we should have waited a couple of weeks before dragging you all the way to Coney Island.”

“It's fine, Buck. Calm down.”

“Calm down? You could have died!”

_Anger. So much anger._

He punched the wall of the dumpster he was using for cover with his metal appendage. The dent that remained didn't help him to process the hallucinations. How long had he been out of contact with his handlers? Everything was a blur since the explosion. Chemical gas? He'd taken several lungfuls of the gas before being able to work himself free of the wreckage. Maybe that caused the hallucinations.

_Right. Chemical gas._

He wasn't losing his mind after all. But finding his handlers seemed such a daunting task when the world felt so wrong. Something was out of alignment. The planet wasn't spinning on its natural axis anymore. Going back to his handlers seemed... _Terrifying? Unacceptable? Jesus Christ why does the cold bite so much?_ He was Russian. The cold shouldn't sting so.

 _Footsteps. Get up. Defensive position. Legs braced solidly. Lowered center of gravity._ Only his leg was on fire. The pain in his chest continuously took his attention away from the gunshot in his leg. Red had actually pulled the trigger. Good shot, too.

“The winter is long and safety depends upon cooperation. Can you comply?”

His eyes squeezed closed briefly before he peered through the shadow of his lashes at the men standing down the alley and blocking his escape into West Berlin. Cybernetic fingers curled into a fist.

“Can you comply?”

A gnawing ache in his teeth from clenching them so hard brought him back to awareness when his mind began slipping toward a certain rhythm that felt both natural and paradoxical at the same time. He _wanted_ to want to comply. Something prevented him from wanting what they asked of him.

“Final chance. Can you comply?”

He couldn't comply and displayed his inability to do so violently. One of the men was left dead and another seriously injured before his compromised body gave out on him. Emotion lodged in his throat to choke his ability to draw breath. A denial was shrieked into the night. “I don't belong here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: It's a cold, cold day in Mother Russia


	16. 29 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier is brought in by Department X, who has a new plan to control him.

**29 October, 1961**

Screaming was the first thing he heard after stepping off the lift in the basement of Project Motherland, such terrible screams he wasn't sure human lungs created them. What he found was Yakov being restrained by two of Chairman Karpov's finest, who struggled to keep him from breaking free. Three more stood ready to leap to the defense of their comrades should the asset succeed in getting loose. They were armed with electrical rods, said rods capable of inflicting pain and shutting down the cybernetic limb, and loaded rifles. Not even the most prized asset would be given the opportunity to hurt the new chairman of the KGB.

“I don't belong here!” shouted the asset in a hoarse voice. The bandage taped over his chest indicated he'd already been through medical processing, but he still looked in poor condition from his time on the streets of West Berlin.

“Calm yourself,” Aleksander crooned in an attempt to get the man to stop shouting. Every struggle looked as though it would stress the asset's health. “Your name is Yakov. You are the Winter Soldier, a fearsome Russian assassin who volunteered his exceptional skill for service in the highest levels of the KGB. Of course you belong here. You're confused, injured, and overtired.”

The asset wasn't calmed. In fact, he managed to free the cybernetic arm and used it to punch one of the men restraining him so hard the man's neck snapped. “You're lying. Stop lying to me!” His brief moment of freedom was brought to a swift halt by an electrical charge shorting out the arm, allowing one of the other guards to hurry in and disable him again.

He didn't know what to do and glanced toward the chairman, who was seated while watching the scene unfold. “He's wild, Chairman. The injury was grievous, I'm told. The only reason he's still alive is because the Hydra serum filling him prevented his heart from bleeding into his body cavity.”

Karpov rolled to his feet and straightened his jacket with a quick tug. “I don't require a medical update. What I require is a method of controlling this wayward asset. Since you have failed to divine a solution to his rebellious streak, Doctor Rodchenko and I have come to a plan.”

“This isn't fair, Comrade,” he interrupted. “He saved the KGB from Alexander Shelepin.” His mistake was realized instantly, but it was too late to call the words back from being said.

“He saved it?” A dangerous quality laced the chairman's tone.

Such an emphatic question didn't need to be shouted. His foster father's tone was enough to make him quake in his shoes. Aleksander cringed. “I d-didn't m-mean... F-f-forgive m-me. I m-m-misspoke.”

An elevated fist eased down to Karpov's side, and he paused briefly to put his hair back in order. “Doctor Rodchenko believes the asset's cooperation requires long term storage in a cryogenics unit when not on active duty. He is being inundated with outside stimuli that deteriorates his mental conditioning at an increasingly rapid rate. Cutting him off from that stimuli, he believes, will help preserve the conditioning. Once he's under, he will only be woken for short periods when his particular skill set becomes necessary for achieving our goals.”

Another terrible sound erupted from the asset, who resumed struggling to free himself. “You have no right to do this to me. I'm not Russian.” The desperate sound was nearing a plead. “Please, I'm not Russian. I don't know who I am, but I know my name isn't Yakov.”

Aleksander flinched when Yakov took up shouting again—when James took up shouting again. Someone needed to intervene to stop his pleading because a man so potent should never be reduced to such indignity. It was unbecoming for James. 

That realization changed his perception of the man. Anyone capable of pleading, of being that desperate, was not worthy of the regard he had thus far held for James. He knew then he'd made an impossible goalpost of the asset. Why measure himself against someone that impotent?

But turning off his protective instinct wasn't so simple, and he glanced toward the large cryogenics container situated in the corner. Doctor Rodchenko pressed a series of buttons to activate the unit and cause the door to pop open with a slight hiss as pressurized air was released.

“We're ready for the patient, Sir,” Rodchenko announced.

Chairman Karpov straightened to his full height. “Do you intend to stand in the way?”

Aleksander's glance flew back and forth between the two men: Karpov, who had saved him from Kronos and given him a place and purpose in life and James, who had unknowingly helped him grow into manhood. Despite the man's present indignity, he suddenly felt very sorry for having brought James into the KGB. It would have been a kinder fate to let him die in Germany than to have subjected him to an indefinite period of service to such harsh taskmasters.

“Sir, please. I have fulfilled your orders for many years and now retract my willing consent to anything that happens from here on out. Whatever consent you say I once gave is rescinded.”

Caught between the two most important men in his life, he sided with the only one capable of providing him with real loyalty, with real emotion. His jaw tightened, and he nodded to the chairman. “You are incapable of giving or rescinding consent, Soldier. You are a non-entity. The only rights you have are those we say you can have.”

“A wise and worthy decision, Mister Lukin.” Chairman Karpov greeted him with a tight squeeze of his shoulder before indicating the men escorting Yakov should finish their work. 

Lukin went through the mental process of stripping the asset's old identity. James did not exist anymore. That name would never be uttered by his conscience again. There was no more James Barnes. There was only Yakov, only the Winter Soldier, only the Asset.

Yakov's jaw tightened along with the stiffening of his spine. It appeared the asset had finally accepted the inevitable, as he put up no more fight while being walked over to his new quarters and placed inside by Karpov's underlings. Something incredibly defiant existed in his rigid posture, as though he were silently vowing revenge. The promise of death lurked in the glance boring into Lukin, a glance that was maintained though the viewing window after the door had closed and in the brief moments before the cryogenics sleep froze him in position.

One day, the Winter Soldier would be the death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Gwen completes the mission.


	17. 31 October, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen completes the mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Is anyone interested in reading a second part of this series where Gwen and Howard team up with Nick Fury to bring Peggy Carter out of her coma? The Winter Soldier doesn't make an appearance in it, but it's already completed. If you're interested, let me know, I'll turn this into a series.

**31 October, 1961**

No matter how long she lived in the Soviet Union, she just couldn't get used to the biting chill, the kind that worked into a person's bones until they felt frozen solid. She watched from a distance while members of the American branch of S.H.I.E.L.D finished back-filling the snow and ice they'd removed in order to bury the coffin deep into a mountain. The coring machine they'd used to create the depths necessary to ensure the coffin's safety had already started the long trek back to an icebreaker ship waiting to carry them away from the Godforsaken Arctic.

Dimitry came running toward her from the transport. “Boss!”

She turned in time to see him trip over something.

Some of the curses that poured from his mouth while he hopped around on one foot were taken right from her usual transcripts. After a minute or so of displaying his annoyance and discomfort, he gingerly settled weight onto the appendage again. “What in the world did I trip on?”

“Your two left feet?” Smiling, Gwen moved toward him and noticed a hunk of something sticking up from the ice. She crouched to help him pry it loose, moving snow with her thick gloves until they lifted it free. It looked to be an oblong piece of black metal that had been torn off a larger metal item.

“How does metal get out into the middle of the Arctic?” he asked.

She shrugged in response. Thule Airbase wasn't a tremendous distance away. It wasn't farfetched to imagine Nazi fighter pilots harrying the airbase and then becoming disoriented by all the blinding whiteness for hundreds of miles in all directions. “What were you racing out here to tell me?”

“We just got word from London. Mister Stark has finally regained consciousness and seems alert and coherent. Agent Carter's condition, however, remains unchanged. He's been asking about you. What should I radio them to tell him?”

An odd sense of destiny kept her rooted momentarily to the spot while she scanned the horizon in all directions. Narrowing down that strange sensation wasn't possible, so she turned away and moved to join Vetrov. “Tell him we'll be on our way home in a couple of hours. We should be in London in about a week if we can cut some travel corners.”

How was she supposed to know that a frozen hero slumbered not more than a hundred yards away, trapped deep beneath the snow and ice?

 

**Daily Notes: My duty is done. The coffin and its contents are as safe as I can make them without shooting each member of the team to avoid any gossip from being spread. Now it's home to London where The Devilish Duo has been transferred for more intense medical care. I can't help but worry about Peggy. That she hasn't regained consciousness is concerning news.**

**Post-dated 5, March 2011 Looking back on the events, I could bloody kick myself for having not taken that scrap of metal more seriously. Two weeks ago, I received a personal call from Director Fury informing me they've located the wreckage of the Valkyrie a half mile from this location. Captain Rogers was frozen in a block of ice inside, and I've been recalled from Columbia for a meeting with the director. If only Peggy were here to see this day...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the story.


End file.
